Teenagers
by Vanessa Crispin
Summary: Dangerous people always meet in the most common places. Jerome/Harleen Quinzel
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note:_ Inspired by all those music videos on youtube featuring Elle Fanning as Harley Quinn.

* * *

 _They said all teenagers scare the living shit out of me_

 _They could care less as long as someone will bleed_

 _So darken your clothes or strike a violent pose_

 _Maybe they'll leave you alone but not me_

\- Teenagers, My Chemical Romance

* * *

When people saw that weird girl from junior year talking to an older guy, nobody really thought it weirder than anything else the girl got up to. After all, most of the girls dated older guys – the seniors dated people from college even.

Pupils walking by would see them talking in between classes, sometimes even during (because they themselves were skipping class too) over by the football field. Sometimes they did more than talk. But mostly it was just kids stuff – making each other laugh by preforming silly tricks. That older guy with the red hair knew a lot of them apparently. He would make her laugh so hard her eyes melted shut, eyelashes much darker against her white-blonde hair. People did a lot riskier things at recess than what they did – so the teachers didn't bother to interfere.

* * *

Sometimes the guy would be waiting for her outside of school after the bell rang, but never by the front steps. He'd be hiding somewhere behind a tree, ready to jump out and spook her.

Harley was an awkward person inside, in class she didn't speak a word unless it was somehow forced out of the girl. She tugged at her school uniform and sulked in the corridors. But whenever she was with him, words appeared like peppercorn, popping out of her mouth like that pink bubblegum she was so obsessed with.

* * *

Nobody knew that he'd been telling her stuff that would give most people nightmares for life. How he would leave her notes in her locker, describing filthy things that he'd like to do to her. Nobody noticed this, because Harley kept the notes hidden inside her bra, and kept even worse secrets hidden in the way she blinked, all innocent and pure.

He would give her piggyback rides to school in the morning sometimes, even though no girl in their right mind actually asked for piggyback rides at their age. She'd muss his red hair so that it flew in every direction, and he'd look after her like he wanted to take revenge by doing things to her that most teenage boys would stutter and turn red just thinking about.

* * *

When she turned seventeen he gave her a stuffed rabbit missing one eye that she brought to school with her.

People made fun of her when she brought it into class, and it got even worse when one of the seniors stole it out of her hands, dangling it above her head. She cried when they teased her, but there was more to it than that. Weird girl turned out to be more violent than anyone could have anticipated.

The next day in chem class, the same senior that had teased her got set on fire.

When the teachers took Harley aside and asked her who could have done such a thing, she'd shrugged and blinked innocently, hiding even more secrets. But it was starting to look suspicious, because she no longer cried when someone teased her about her hair, or her strange clothes.

Instead she smiled, and fluttered her lashes. Because her boyfriend had taught her so many new tricks to try.


	2. Chapter 2

**Teenage girl goes missing - is love or terror to blame?**

 **Article by: Gotham Gabbers**

* * *

Little to no fuss was made when Harleen Quinzel, age sixteen suddenly failed to turn up in school back in April of 2015. But at some point, a teacher had to make the usual inquires when a student fails to show up for school. Quinzels homeroom teacher had expressed concern over the girl and called her mother, who didn't answer the first 5 times they tried. Had she noticed that her daughter hadn't gone to school?

Turns out, Mrs Quinzel (49 years old, divorcee) hadn't noticed much of anything for the past 20 years, least of all what her daughter was doing. A woman who more than often lived in other peoples homes, places littered with empty beer cans and angry rottweilers chained up in the backyard. The police later became involved on behalf of the school principal and social services, who came to interview students and teachers alike about the missing girl. Gotham Gabbers made their own inquires a few weeks ago, to see if we could get to the bottom of it.

 _"Well, she was a weird kid. Those weirdos will do anything, you know? "_ one student had said on the subject, gum smacking and eyes darting left and right in the crowded school corridor, crammed tight with students throwing paperclips and hurrying to class. And how can you keep track of so many students? It is not hard to see how easy it is for someone to suddenly disappear.

Another classmate had more tangible information to offer, but still nothing that could say what had become of the girl.

 _"She was quiet, but I mean, nice. She spent a lot of time in sewing class, making these like, costumes? But she never wore them, we all figured it was for the drama students. That teacher used to gush about her."_

It wasn't until one of our most presistant writers came looking for information, after the reveal that the girl, Harleen Quinzel, had recently been seen in the company of a criminal gang called "The Maniax" headed by a familiar, redheaded boy. It was then that the school counselor, Madame Avon, stepped forward for the first time since her disappearance.

When Gotham Gabbers met her, Avon was in her office and appeared to be somewhat like a woman in mourning. Constantly grim and constantly smoking.

 _"She came to me with sculptures she'd made in art class and I never knew what to do with the damn things, but I accepted them anyway. Here's one-"_ she said, taking out a small figure made of red clay from a cardboard box under her desk. A picture with the article showed a fetus like creature with a split head, a heart sticker over its left eye.

 _"She would give me these, and in addition to that, she would reveal these...little tidbits of her life to me. I think she saw me as a parent substitute perhaps, since her own mother was so neglectful. It could be anything from good grades or a bruise she'd been given by a bully, only she was always proud and fascinated by them, the wounds. I gently reminded her that pain is not always good, but she wouldn't hear a word of it. She had never mentioned boys before, or even love at all – but the week before she disappeared, it was all she could talk about. Hell, I was happy for her, it didn't seem like something bad. She would never mention him by name though. Maybe because she knew. "_

Avon went on to describe the girl as a victim, and part of the reason for her talking to the press was so that people would understand that Harleen Quinzel was not a girl sound of mind. That if caught, she should not be sent to prison, but to a psychiatric facility.

 _"I want it understood that this child cannot be held accountable for these recent events. She has clearly been swept up in something she has no way of understanding. In all the times I've had time to talk and observe her, I know for a fact that she lives in a dream world, with no real connection to reality."_

After this statement, Gotham Gabbers went on to ask if she believed that Harleen would see the error of her ways and come back. To this, Avon had looked a little sad, and laughed bitterly.

 _"Chained and gagged perhaps, but this girl will never part from the fantasy that she's currently living in."_


	3. Chapter 3

"Gentlemen, say hell-o to your new mother!"

They were curious as to who this newcomer was, much like children were. Though none of them were really children, but murderers and psychopaths. They ate napkins like it tasted heavenly and laughed whenever their leader laughed. They followed the order of the non-sensical, and attacked each new challenge set before them with viciousness and childish glee.

It was only fitting that they needed a mother, someone who took care of them and made sure that they ate anything besides napkins and battery acid.

She looked like a princess when she came to them, standing a few paces behind Jerome and looking at them all with a detached curiosity. She was wearing a tutu and black combat boots, paired with a grey faded hoodie. She looked like she'd been sleeping on the streets for the past couple of weeks, though in reality, it had been more of a honeymoon.

Jerome couldn't keep his black eyes off her. She was looking at the birds that sat outside on the window ledge, her eyes silver in the sunlight.

One of them made a sudden noise, a burst of laughter that couldn't be controlled and she snapped to attention. She walked forward to them where they were all sitting on the floor like dogs, sharing what was left of a cold pizza. She touched one of them on the head, stroked their cheek thoughtfully. It had a soothing affect on the ex-arkham inmate, who nearly closed his eyes at the contact, his mind temporarily stilled and calm.

She crouched down to his level, and they could all see now that she was also wearing fairy wings strapped to her back. No matter that they were broken and covered with grime. She was beautiful.

"What is your name?"

"A-Adam."

"Do you want me to tell you a story Adam? My mother used to tell me stories about pirates and mermaids, where the pirates skin blew off and the mermaids teeth shattered against the rocks, creating pearls and jewels. But pirates don't need skin to pillage and plunder, do they Adam?"

Adam shook his head slowly, his eyes wide and focused on the angel that was speaking to him.

"No, no they don't."

The angel smiled serenely, stroking his head.

"That's a good boy."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: If you can catch the Dracula reference, kudos to you!

* * *

Security footage from Shreck's department store: Transcript (sound not available)

9/10/2016

7:30 pm

* * *

CAM1 (Second Floor, entrance to elevators)

 _A large explosion next to the camera shakes the image momentarily, image shows smoke and people running away from the explosion. Nobody is stepping out of the elevators. A few moments later more shoppers run by the camera, presumably towards the emergency exit. The image flickers and static appear, when image is clear again the smoke has vanished, debris is lying scattered on the marble floor. Something flashes in the upper left corner of the screen, before two men appear, both carrying firearms of unfamiliar design. They are followed by another dragging the body of a security guard, who is dropped near the center of the image, in front of the elevators. They kick him twice in the stomach, before running away in the direction of the emergency exit._

 _CAM7_ (Third floor, Ladies department)

 _A man walks in front of a line of people wearing expensive clothing – his face is uncovered, and he looks at the camera and points it out to the group of people he is talking to. Behind him are masked people with firearms, pointed at the people in the line. The man with no mask is laughing, but the source of the laughter is not visible. The group is shaking, some of them crying. They hand over their jewlery and cash to a masked man carrying a large duffle bag. Before the camera is taken out (presumably by firearm or manually) the man without the mask winks into the camera, makes a gun with his hand and aims it at the group of people._

 _CAM1(Second Floor, Entrance to elevators)_

 _All customers have vanished, or have been evacuated from the building. The security guard is still seen lying on the floor, not moving. A young woman appears slowly, walking in from the left. She approaches the guard on the ground. She is wearing the outfit of a ballerina, and she makes a slow pirouette before she comes to stand by the guards feet. She is unmasked, blonde hair, no firearms or weapon visible in her hands. She stands there looking at the guard for a moment. Then she takes out a small card (impossible to tell what sort of card) and puts it gently over his mouth. She kisses it gently before rising, and pirouetting away out of the frame._

* * *

Only mice and cockroaches shared the floor above their hideout. If Harley tilted her head, she could hear them stomping through the attic like elephants. It did not bother her at all, simply fascinated her to the point of obsession. The sun was high in the sky and that was a good time to be bored. It had such a different meaning here, in this new world where everything good was really good, and everything BAD was not really bad, just an oversight. Something that could be healed.

She watched J walking back and forth through their living room downstairs. He was on the phone again to that man, the one who was an insect in the sky demanding tribute. She didn't like him. But he had freed her love, and that was why she kept so quiet about it.

Downstairs, J was getting really angry with him. She could tell by the way his smile got sharper and sharper, and the hand that wasn't holding the phone was turning into a claw of pale muscle and bone.

Harley stretched, sitting on the steel table they used to eat by at night. She pretended that it was a cage and she the tiger that roamed within, licking her fur and showing her claws to the visitors (other ex-arkham inmates) who happened to pass her by to the bathroom or was in the middle of a psychotic break. She crawled on her knees along the table, watching them hungerly, like she could attack them at any moment. They flinched when they got too close, kept their eyes trained to the floor or anywhere else but her.

But J met her eyes squarely, everytime he looked up, his eyes stayed on hers long enough that both of them knew what the other was thinking. _Trouble, trouble, trouble._

It was not good if they got in a bad way with Galavant, not right now. Even Harley realized that, even if she was insane enough not to care much about death, she still cared more about the art of hurting, and the art of loving her husband.

Their marriage liscense was hanging in a corner of her side of their room, in the middle of a mobile that hang from the ceiling made out of dry twigs and bones from dead things she'd found. It was an official document. Harley kissed it a lot, which was why there were pink and red lipstick all over it.

When J hung up the phone, he walked up the stairs to the loft where she was sitting on the table, lounging across it like a lazy cat. He tilted his head and stroked his cheek alongside her thigh and she smiled softly. He was not smiling, but the smile was in his touch, the stroke of his hands along her bare legs. He sighed heavily, the sound vibrating through her skin. He propped his head on her hip, looking up at her face with hooded, dark eyes.

"We need to plan a party. Something the old man would love..." he said, his voice completely neutral but his face was wicked and serious. She tilted her head and hummed.

"I'll call catering, shall I ask for a big cake, or just a small one?"

"Make it big, precious. There are going to be lots of guests, all so very _hungry_."


	5. Chapter 5

" _Join us tonight for a special episode of Targeting the Mind, where Dr. Williams and guest will discuss the psychological profiles of some of Gotham's most notorious criminals, as well as getting into the topic on everbody's lips – the notorious "Maniax" underground gang, and its teenage members. How were these children convinced to join a life of crime? Stay tuned for more, her on GC channel 4."_

* * *

Host: Welcome back to another episode of Targeting the mind! I am your host, Dr. Williams. Today's topic will touch on the ill minds of criminals – can their behavior be excused on a diagnosis, or is society itself to blame for their turn to crime? Here beside me today is Arkham Asylums finest doctor, _Miss Joan Leland_. Hello Joan, and thank you for coming today.

Leland: Thank you for having me.

Host: Now, you've been working for the asylum for over 20 years, is that correct?

Leland: Yes it is.

Host: And during that time, I am sure you've treated some very strange individuals.

Leland: To me, nobody is strange – merely suffering. The patients at the asylum, though I prefer the term "hospital", are displaying strange behavior as you label it, because they have severe mental dissorders that are beyond their control.

Host: Beyond their control you say, and yet they are able to control certain aspects of their lives that led up to their hospitalization. Drugs, rape, murder...

Leland: Well sometimes that's what we call a cry for help. But with the patients at Arkham, it is much more than that. They're like children, testing the waters to see how far you can go until society snaps back and says "enough!" But that is why Arkham is a psychiatric facility, and not a prison. We know that these people are special, and require special attention to rehabilitate, even though they may never walk freely again.

Host: Yes, as is the case with someone like the man the press call "The penguin" and another man called Edward Nygma?

Leland: I cannot reveal anything personal about their cases, but yes, their crimes too have been quite severe.

Host: Edward Nygma was only up until recently employed with the GCPD, had a normal life and went to his job everyday. How is it that a man suddenly snaps and starts commiting violent acts?

Leland: It can be because of a veriety of causes – difficult childhood, mental illnesses in the family, a traumatic incident. The important thing to stress here is, almost all symptoms can be recognized early and treated, it is just a matter of recognizing them – or having someone close to you support the person to start working the problems out in therapy. Sociopathic tendencies are however, always difficult to treat.

Host: And why is that?

Leland: Because often times, sociopathic patients are aware of their diagnosis to such a point that they see everyone else as being sick, and they themselves are perfectly healthy. That is not to say that a person with sociopathic tendancies cannot function within a normal society, quite the opposite. But it is when said person have been raised with people who are not aware of these tendancies that the problems begin. Difficulty to tell if an action is right or wrong, that kind of thing.

Host: And do you think that the person leading this new underground gang, calling themselves "the maniax" are led by such a person? Can we have an image of him, up here? Yes there we go.

Leland: It is difficult to say, but not an improbable theory. But since he is so young, it is as I've said, a difficult case.

Host: Why is that?

Leland: Because this could be about something as simple as teenage rebellion. A way to break free of society's rules, even take revenge on bullies from school. It could be about gaining attention from parental figures.

Host: The rest of this gang though have been described as older, some of them even ex-arkham inmates. What is your view on that?

Leland: It is most unfortunate to hear about patients escaping, and this case is no different. I know for a fact that some of those patients are in desperate need of medical care, and without their medication can become dangerous to themselves and to society at large.

Host: Are you saying that they are more dangerous than their leader?

Leland: No. Jerome Valeska is a dangerous person. He might be young and not completely aware of the consequences of his actions, but he is very dangerous.

Host: Why do you say that?

Leland: Because, for some reason or other, the members of this so called "gang" trusts him, and they do what he tells them to do. And that is a powerful thing, to have control over a group of people.

Host: Not to mention the young girl who's been seen with the group now on several occations. Harleen Quinzel, I believe her name is, dropped out of high school over a year ago to be with Jerome Valeska, the authorities have not been able to locate her or the gang so far.

Leland: That poor girl, I feel sorry for her.

Host: What do you mean by that?

Leland: Well, she's probably under the illusion that he is her knight in shining armor. I know that there was an article about her mental health sometime after she disappeared, where her school psychologist explained how the girl had behaved at school – alienated, misunderstood. It's such a fragile age to meet boys, to feel and express love and affection. It can overrule everything else, even common sense.

Host: You're saying she's an innocent?

Leland: No. I do not believe that, merely impressionable. Her situation at home was rather rough as well, which makes the situation easier to understand. Someone comes along and offers you something that has been denied you perhaps your entire childhood, why say no to that? But I do believe the girl is suffering from manic depression, after reading the notes the school counselor sent me – she thought it might help when the police catches up and arrests her.

Host: Did love drive her to join in this life of crime?

Leland: Perhaps, and teenagers want excitement don't they? What's more exciting than living like it's you and your best friend against the world? In her mind, it's a wonderful adventure, a break from the bullies at school.

Host: There was video footage of her in that nightclub incident a few days ago. Ten people died in a night club catered to punks and heavy metal enthusiasts. She was covered in blood and other dancers were killed by members of the gang, but she kept on dancing. Do you think she realized what has happening around her, did she have the power to stop it?

Leland: I'm not saying that its all a childish game to her. She knows what they are doing, and she sees no problems with it, as is obvious from that horrible footage. She is, I regret to say, like so man y patients at Arkham. Beyond being reasoned with, beyond understanding that blood cannot be returned back to its owner. Take Jerome away from her, and you'll know what I mean. She thrives only because he does. She smiles because he is happy and well, and that is the trouble with this whole matter.


	6. Chapter 6

Radio Host: Listeners, welcome to the new horizon, the bridge in our cosmos, this is Orions Belt.

Tonight we will listen to the spirits, and guide you through another weekly prayer to Mother Gaia. We'll answer your questions about the afterlife, or have your cards read for you live on the line.

Anonymous Caller 1#: Hello.

Radio host: Hello child, we welcome you to this safe haven. Pray, what is your query?

Anonymous Caller #1: I have a question about the future.

Radio Host: We will do our best to answer, what is it you wish to know about the future?

Anonymous Caller #1: I have seen the planets shift while I'm asleep. Will there be aftershocks, can you see if my tongue will bleed for this?

Radio Host: The planets have indeed rotated, but it is uncertain wheter we will feel the consequences yet – a black horse walks on two legs through the mist, but what does that matter if he talks like a man? Our advice to you is to keep track of the stars, not the planets. The details are what sets us apart from animals.

Anonymous Caller #1: Thank you.

* * *

At night she falls asleep to the unsteady breaths of lost boys in the larger room, she sleeping in an old armchair in the middle of it all. This is how she puts them all to sleep, with tales she's spun from what her mother used to tell her a long time ago, but the stories have been altered and twisted enough that they carry little resemblance to what they were. Sometimes there is a new face among them, often are they mad or twitching. They welcome anyone who is willing to live for them. A heap of faded and torn sneakers lie in a corner of the room, along with stolen goods, bowling shoes and hockey sticks. Harley has come to love using the stick as her scepter, using it to gain the attention of her "children".

A door will open and spill in a little light, or no light at all. The boy behind it is even darker than the night itself. His face is alchemy, want and animalistic hunger.

No not boy, a man. And she is a woman, fresh-cut and wildgrown in the soil of what her mother used to call an upbringing. And they are both completely insane.


	7. Chapter 7

He had taken her to places she'd only dreamed about.

Vacant houses, abandoned shopping malls and rooftops in the city. A closed theme park where you could, if you knew how, turn on all the lights and music.

Though his interest in the places they visited waned quickly, his interest in her only intensified. She was just a schoolgirl, but to him she was more than that. But then they visited these places, they acted just like any teenagers might – running after each other through mazes of popcorn stands and rusted roller-coasters, wrecking the remainders of a pape-maiche raindeer, eating chocolate left behind by the snackbar.

He had wrestled her, both laughing, into a plastic boat meant to ride through the love tunnel, now broken down. The water below them had turned green and sickly, once nicely trimmed roses grew wild and dipped into the water and covered some of the boats like a giant claw.

The weather was too cold and they were too young and stupid to care for things like wearing mittens and proper shoes. Their noses and hands were turning red, the breath coming out in clouds as they shivered.

He had her in his lap and she felt warm in other places than her hands. It was a new feeling, one she wasn't sure how to feel about. He was looking at her, her neck, his hands on her hips clutching her tighter. The boat was small and didn't leave much room for movement. Her heart was beating fast and he slipped one hand inside her coat, underneath her shirt. She shivered a little at first, since his hand was cold. But he knew that, just as he knew that a kiss to her throat would make her heart race, her eyelashes flutter.

She knew that he got her, that he knew every insidious thought in her head.

Nobody else could make her feel this way. Nobody else could take her apart and tell her a story at the same time, she could read it in the pattern of his freckles, the things he said as he made her come, how he brought her to that place where they both were equals, and the world was her kingdom, and she was the princess.

He knew that a princess needed knives in her pockets and a man who could make her laugh.

After that first time, she hugged him close, held onto him as tight as she dared.

"You can never leave me." she had whispered, and he'd smiled, almost a mocking smile at her – his cheeks red and his eyes black and hard. But they were serious then, his eyes. They always gave him away.

"Pinky promise I won't." he'd said, waving the digit at her, making her grin.


	8. Chapter 8

_I need excitement, oh I need it bad_

 _And it's the best, I've ever had_

\- Teenage Kicks, The Undertones

* * *

The incident at the night club hadn't been planned.

The tension at home had been high, Jerome had been (for some unfathomable reason) getting angry at the other members of the Maniax gang, and the anger was just rising as the night went on. His moods were so unpredictable, and he was unpredictable. It was making everybody antsy.

He had been sitting in (her) armchair, watching the black screen of the tiny television set for two hours, foot tapping restlessly against the floor. Harley had made his hair up into two pigtails, and despite this, he still looked as menacing as ever.

Even though he hadn't told her in detail, she knew that he was upset about Galavant – taking orders from him was becoming tiresome, despite the treasures it gave them.

She was just about to start another makeover on one of the other members, who was rocking back and forth on the floor in an almost catatonic state, when Jerome stood up so suddenly from the chair that everybody turned around and looked at him. He looked around the room at them all, black eyes glittering. There was something almost fey about him then, and it was clear as day that he was up to mischief. He was in good company.

"Who wants to play...musical chairs?"

* * *

Nobody stamped their wrists on their way in, the place was too crowded to pay any attention to who came and went. It was teeming with young people in mohawks, punks and teenagers up past curfew. A band was playing on a stage, the dance floor was packed with people and the air was hot and humid.

They slipped in among them like shadows, though not many of them danced but headed for the bar instead.

Harley disappeared on the dance floor, as Jerome watched her from a distance, keeping tabs on what everyone was doing. He was eyeing the bartender in that special way of his that promised free drinks and a zipped mouth about them being there. He was young, but already people feared him almost as much as Cobblepot. He didn't look like he was made out of money, but that was not what gave him respect.

It was fear, pure and simple. He was what nightmares were made of, and he was starting to come through to people – it was dawning on them, that this was a man who had no goal but destruction in mind.

His eyes flickered back to the dance floor and his face froze, watching her.

Harley closed her eyes when she danced. She did that alot, he'd noticed. Not because she was playing coy or some other bullshit. She just didn't want to see any faces when she danced, didn't want their eyes to take away what she was feeling. She had been wearing the same clothes now since she first came to live with him, that dirty hoodie and that off-white ballerina skirt which was starting to turn sooty grey. Yet the other dancers couldn't take their eyes off her.

She moved as if in a dream, as if the music was her pulse.

Then it had all been disrupted when someone had suddenly touched her. And dared to touch her again, gripping her arm. She opened her eyes and glared daggers at the man, he said something that couldn't be heard over the music, and in response she spat in his face and continued dancing.

Before the man could retiliate however, his raised fist was held back by someone from behind and a knife was pressed inbetween his shoulder blades. Just a short gasp and nothing more. Harley twirled and twirled, laughing and grinning at him.

My god, she was perfect. His Harley.

And what could their children do, but follow a good example?


	9. Chapter 9

News anchor: ...The GCPD has been working hard to locate the members of the now infamous "Maniax" gang, whose latest appearance at an opera performance at the Gotham Plaza monday night ended with five guests being sent to the hospital with grave injuries. Aside from stealing, the gang also subjected the guests to a "game" where they had to guess which card Harleen Quinzel was holding from am ordinary deck of playing cards. If the guest guessed wrong, they were shot or maimed with a knife.

One guest had a rubber duck forced down their throat, after having protested against their treatment. This person is now in critical condition at Gotham General, and doctors think they cannot salvage what is left of his vocal chords.

* * *

Caller#1: I think it's disgusting how youth has been corrupted in this city. If the police can't catch them, what do we say to our kids? This will only give them a bad influence, someone to look for when they feel vulnerable. "Oh look, those kids are happy, those kids are free – and the police is doing nothing to stop it!"

Caller#2: I think you're overreacting Bob, I really think you – look, these people, they are not children. Sure they may be young, but just because we're young shouldn't mean that we automatically become psychopaths, roaming the streets. Why I never would have even thought of going to bed past curfew when I was a girl.

Radio Host: I understand that you have some difference in opinion here, but let's get back to the original question for a minute. What happened to Harleen Quinzel, how could this innocent, quiet young woman go from a normal teenager to take on a life outside the law?

Caller#1: It's a story that every dad tells his little girl, stay away from the bad boy. We say it a thousand times, and yet it still doesn't matter.

Radio Host: So you're saying it's all this...Jerome's fault, that she is now a criminal, wanted in 12 states?

Caller#2: As a psychologist and a mother of three girls, let me just say this; it's always the parents fault. That's why I am always so patient with my own children – show them the respect and love they deserve, and they will show the same to you.

Radio Host: Yes well, that's all we'll have time for today. Time to wrap things up with another weather update from our man with a plan, Sean Taggert-

* * *

"They've been doing well." Tabitha commented idly, sitting by their expensive dining table, polishing a knife.

Galavan was standing next to her, reading the article that covered what had happened (more unsavory details left out of course) the night of the opera. The diva had fainted on the stage out of shock, and the current mayor was at a loss with how to fix the problem. Prominent sponsors of the arts and culture in the city had been present, and they were having some serious thoughts of taking a long, long vacation. That would mean bad publicity for the Mayor, and thus, a bad reputation for the city overall.

Galavan would see to that, once he was elected mayor. Yes, the gang had done their part well.

 _Perhaps a little too well,_ a voice whispered in his head. He wasn't scared of much, but he was scared of Jerome, even he could admit to that. That young man was pure evil. He filed away this thought for later, turning to their current guest – the Mayors chief of staff.

He had important information about the Mayors schedule and upcoming plans for the re-election (which was not happening, because in a matter of days, he would be dead). Nevertheless, the information was still important for Galavan to take part of, in order to take his place.

But the Mayors staff was loyal, and did not speak. Even when threatened and beaten, the chief of staff would only spit in his face and stare up at him with defiance.

He was tied down to a chair and Tabitha had done her best (and she did it very well) to coax it out of him, but he would not budge. Admirable really.

Galavan glanced at him over the paper and smiled pleasantly.

"Sir, I think I shall send you over to a circus. They're new in town, eager to make new friends."


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's note:_ What the blowjob, I can't seem to stop writing about these two. Also, the rating will go up in the future because sex and violence. Will include the "new and improved" Jerome from episode 12 of season 3, but with my own take on it.

* * *

 _An empty home_

 _A vacant hell_

 _I knew you in the harsh realm_

 _-_ Harsh Realm, by Widowspeak

* * *

"They don't understand, do they?"

Harley was talking to the ceiling, to herself and to the sleeping boy next to her. He slept naked, the covers kicked back and rumpled, leaving his upper body exposed and angled towards her. He may have looked slight and boyish with clothes on, but underneath he was wiry, his stomach taut with muscles, as was his arms and legs. It contrasted with his almost feminine skin, the delicate spatter of freckles across his shoulders and his back.

She was lying on top of the covers, still wearing the clothes that made her uniform – the tutu was accumulating red dots of blood and the hoodie was starting to smell.

Gritty stars drawn with black markers looked down on her from the ceiling, and she concentrated on their formations for a minute, until her sight became too blurry. Her bottomlip was wobbling, yet her tears fell in silence. It was quiet in here, and it was quiet in the other rooms as well. Everyone else was asleep.

How could he tell that she was crying? She didn't know, but he did. His eyes blinked open and his eyes traced her face, a hand coming up to grab her chin, gently turning her head to look at him. He brought himself closer to that their foreheads rested against each other. Her wet eyelashes blinked away more tears. He nuzzled her and closed his eyes, still sleepy. Reddish eyelashes that deeply contrasted with his husky, grim voice.

"I like it when you cry, but not when I don't know what the reason is. Tell me."

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words were delayed and her mouth quivered before she said them. Her eyes were large, seemingly surprised at what she was saying.

"They've got it all wrong, everything. They think you forced me."

"Well, we both know _that's_ not the case. " he opened his eyes, eyeing her suggestively. She sat up in bed and didn't seem to register what he had said, staring ahead of her into the darkness of their bedroom. Their hideout was part of an abandoned apartment complex, they had the whole building to themselves, after kicking out a few stragglers and squatters who slept on dirty mattresses on the floor.

"I don't like what they call you, what they think I am ; _**weak**_." she hissed out that last word like it was something she wanted to punch.

He stroked her back through the hoodie slowly, comforting – occasionally grabbing viciously at the faded cotton.

"But you're not. I know, because if you were, I would have drowned you like a kitten."

"They think we're lost. They think I need my mommy. They don't see how love has given me wings, a castle by the sea and children of my own..."

"You can make them see, precious. _Make them_. "

Her eyes shut on their own accord when he kept touched her back, so she was half-sleeping when he got her out of bed, out of the dirty clothes and into a bathtub. She hadn't washed properly in weeks, and he was so gentle with his hands, spidery fingers combing out her hair, lathering it with soap.

 _The devil's hands are always nimble_ a voice whispered in her ear, and she wasn't sure if it was him or her who had said it, but it made him chuckle anyway.

When she was clean, he wrapped her in his red bath robe and carried her back to their bed.

This time when she went to sleep, him wrapped around her like wild ivy, she forgot her fears about their future together. Her earlier sadness became a slow fire, justice burning like a flame in her heartbeat, steady and sure.


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's note:_ So how are you all liking the story so far? This is probably the most twisted story I've written, and it's not even over yet! On another note, I'm reading up on some old Harley/Joker stories from issues of Gotham Adventures to see if there's something interesting there to include in the plot.

* * *

 _When I turn jet black_

 _and you show off your light_

 _I live to let you shine_

 _-_ Boats and Birds, by Gregory and the Hawk

* * *

Next morning, she woke up in bed alone.

The sheets and the covers were rumpled, as if two messy toddlers had jumped on the mattress. A mouse was sitting in a corner of the room, nibbling on the faded curtains. Harley sat up and rubbed at her eyelids, knowing that it was sometime past noon. Nobody kept to a specific bedtime around here.

The door to their bedroom creaked open, and one of her many "children" appeared through it. A man somewhere in his forties, crouched over and giggling quietly. He was excited, she could tell. She watched him approach her from the door, going down on his knees when he got to the bed, like an obedient dog. She watched him cooly from her position on the bed, only smiling when he bent his head down.

"There is a surprise. Downstairs, for you."

After he had left, she moved to get dressed. Her clothes from the other night however, was nowhere to be found. Instead, a white plastic bag had been placed on his side of the bed, with new clothes inside with the tags still attached.

She brought them all out on the bed, smile growing with each new item that was revealed.

* * *

All that John Mcmillan, chief of staff to the Mayor, could think about upon awakening was the smell.

It was bad. Not like garbage, or anything like that. It was a sweet, sickly scent – like sweat mingled with candy gone rancid and rotten. He had a cloth bag over his head, and he was (again) tied to a chair, but he was pretty sure that he was no longer in the Galavant household. No, he had sent him somewhere, when he was knocked out. But where?

He heard voices talking, but he couldn't make any sense of what the voices were saying. It sounded like they were speaking in tounges, all gibberish. He tried locating the voices, turning his head to the noise, but it was impossible. It was all around him.

Suddenly, the bag was lifted over his head and someone flicked the lights on in the room, momentarily blinding him.

He was in a room with no windows, a single lamp above his head. A basement? A door stood open at the far corner of the small room, revealing a staircase. The room was empty, save for a bookshelf standing close to one wall, full of different sorts of items. Wind up toys that looked like they belong ed in a museum, an old typewriter, a toolbox and...a toilet plunger?

"Shhh..."

"Hello? Is someone there?"

The room was full of shadows, since the lamp didn't glow strong enough to light up the whole room. He had failed to notice somone standing in the shadows, but now he could see bare feet, the shape of someone very tall standing there, staring at him. It was a young man wearing the remains of an inmates uniform from arkham. But he didn't recognize him.

"Hey, you. I don't know what Galavan is paying you, but whatever it is, I can double it. "

"I'm _suuuuuuure_ you can Mr Mcmillan sir, but it's not money we want from you. No. You know what we want."

"And a kid like you is going to convince me to talk?"

"Oh, no no no. Not me, no I don't get to play… _.this time._ You, my good man, are a gift. A present I've been meaning to give to my _beautiful_ wife. Ah, here she comes now." Jerome said, gesturing theatrically towards the door.

Mcmillan hadn't noticed someone come into the room, but now that he did, he felt, perhaps for the first time, a tiny twinge of fear. The young woman that stood by the doorway was unlike any other he had seen before. She was wearing a faded sundress that fit loosley on her girlish frame, a harlequin pattern in faded pastel colors. A black veil covered her head with stars woven into the fabric, stretching down over her shoulders and hands. Bare feet, but unlike the young man, hers were covered in strange bruises that looked like little kisses.

Something was wrong with her eyes.

"You see what I get to wake up to every morning? Isn't she perfect? _Isn't she?"_ Jerome suddenly hissed viciously, yanking Mcmillans head back so that he had no other way to look but into his face.

He winced in pain, but nodded as much as he could muster.

"Yes." he said, voice still strong and determined. It made Jerome smile, as if he knew a delicious secret nobody else was privvy to.

"Good man." he said cheerfully, pinching his cheek. He looked up to face his Harley, all at once was shook by how much she was becoming. What she was doing to him by simply standing there. He reached out his hand to her, beckoning.

"Baby? Come here."

She looked away from Mcmillan and focused on him, as if suddenly remembering that he was there at all, and at once she smiled like a little girl, ducking her head shyly before walking over to him with her hands behind her back. He cupped her face in his large hands and kissed her through the veil. The way he was kissing her made it seem like he wanted to eat her tounge, devour her flesh like a zombie. It was rough and heated. She curled her fingernails into the back of his neck, leaving little white half-moon indents into the pale skin. He leaned back and smoothed his hands over her cheeks, wiping away imaginary tears.

"Daddy needs to go take care of some things downtown, will you babysit for me? " he asked in a tender, dark voice.

Harley nodded, eyes aflame on him. Then, lickin her lips before she spoke, she whispered " And I can borrow your toys, you won't get mad?" she asked in a small voice, as he stroked his hand along her chin, around her jaw.

"Just watch your fingers with the chainsaw, it's a big girls toy. Be good, and I'll bring back ice cream."

It looked more like she'd rather devour him than any ice cream he could offer. Before he could leave however, Harley gripped the edge of his shirt, looking unsure.

"I'm nervous..." she said, anxiously writhing her hands. Jerome tilted his head and looked at her like she was being very silly.

"It's all right, just be yourself."

The door slammed behind him. It was really quiet in the room for a few minutes. She stared at the closed door without moving or speaking. Then, turning around, she faced Mcmillan again. In the fuzzy light of the lamp, she looked more like a ghost than a real person.

But it could all be a bluff. They wanted him to talk, and this was just a new tactic to scare him. He snorted at the her, shaking his head. What could this slip of a girl do to him?

"So, what are you going to do? Tell me a scary bedtime story?" he asked, somewhat arrogant.

But the woman just looked like she hadn't picked up on the insult. She stuck to the shadows, creeping around him slowly. She lifted the veil from her face and held it above her head, looking at the stars in the fabric with wild eyes, as if trying to map out constellations.

"I know plenty of stories. Which one would you most like to hear?"


	12. Chapter 12

Mcmillan thought himself a strong man.

He had been mugged in the city more than once, and every time it occurred he didn't even consider it that odd. It was just the way things were around here, and he was a recognizable figure, working for the mayor. Plenty of people (some stranger ones included) took an interest in him as a consequence. He was on good terms with Maroni and his men, and made sure it stayed that way.

When he was much younger, he had volunteered as a day nurse at Arkham, taking care of the elderly patients who (despite not causing any trouble) were not allowed to leave. He had seen faces of madness, up close, and had never been afraid. Felt sorry for them sure, but was never troubled or haunted by them.

He felt like whatever this..."Harley" had in store for him, he could take it. She would panic once she realized that nothing fazed him, and then maybe he could talk her into letting him go. He even thought it was kind of funny, when she brought down the music box from upstairs.

"Is that meant to annoy me?" he asked her loudly, because her eyes didn't find him unless he talked this way, he'd noticed. As if the girl was constantly high on something. She focused on him and looked so...ridiculously happy for a second that it made her look almost like a normal young woman.

"No silly, it's for the parade." she whispered, as if someone else was listening. He frowned impatiently.

"What?"

It was only then he noticed what she'd done with his wallet. It was folded out, standing on the worktable in the room like a triptych, a tea candle lit in front of it like an altar. He had to admit that it was kind of strange. He flinched back when she suddenly let her hand caress his cheek. She crouched down by the chair, folding her hands over his bound arm like a child wanting to be near someone strong and important.

"They want you to come back, John." she whispered imploringly.

"Who-what are you talking about?"

"Your people. Your family. I know you can hear them."

And he was hearing something. From upstairs. Sounds of people shouting, throwing things. Rough barks that didn't sound human or animal. It had to be the rest of Jeromes gang, he figured. It reminded him of something from long ago he'd read in a book - rabbits stuck underground as they were buried alive, trampling each other trying to get out.

"I already have a family." he said, and her lip quivered. She looked like she was going to cry.

"You break my heart, my poor little heart John. "

And then she stood up, turned off the lights and walked out of the room. He was still bound to the chair, and she hadn't done anything to him. He found that very odd. She hadn't even threatened him, like Jerome. The room was completely dark, letting in no light when she had gone. There wasn't a sound but the twinkling tune from the music box still playing in the dark. John thought about how long he'd been missing, if the police would come looking for him. How he was going to escape this place.

There was still a fighting chance. He was still determined to overpower them, somehow.

* * *

It didn't start until the third day.

He'd been sleeping in the chair at nights, still tied up. His neck was stiff and sore, but that was going to be the least of his worries. He awoke that morning by a strange feeling on his skin.

Someone was drawing on it. It was still completely dark in the room, someone must have snuck in, quietly so that he wouldn't wake up. Someone was drawing dots along his wrists, and dots along his neck.

"What are you doing?"

"Shhh, John. You're dreaming. Go back to sleep."

And remarkably, he did. Maybe it was because it was dark, or because of how comforting and sweet the voice had sounded.

When he woke up the second time, it was to the feeling of pain.


	13. Chapter 13

_author's note:_ I know, Jerome isn't in this chapter either. But he will be in the next one, pinky swear!

* * *

She was using a handsaw against his wrists, cutting into the flesh beneath, which parted easily underneath the sharp, jagged blade like meat that had been cooked all day.

At first he couldn't do much but scream. Because the pain was...something else. And she was so intent on her actions, not even looking up at him no matter how loud he screamed.

He looked down at his wrist – she hadn't started with the other one yet, thankfully – but blood was already gushing from it steadily. Not so deep to hit any major arteries, yet. He was sweating up a storm, finally having breath enough to form words.

"Please, stop, stop, stop!" he shouted frantically. Blood was now staining his already soiled white shirt, seeping into his sleeve. She stopped abruptly and glanced at him, her gaze cool and pink lips pursed with disapproval.

"John, you're not being very co-operative." she said matter of fact.

"I know, I know I'm not! Stop this now and I'll give you what you want. I'll give you all the information I have, just...stop."

Harley straightened up, looming over him in the chair. She let the teeth of the saw rest against the undamaged part of his wrist just as she bared her own teeth at him, she leaned forward closer to his face. She looked hopeful and observant, and for a second, John felt relieved. This would all _end_ if he just told her what Galavan wanted to know.

But he miscalculated. He didn't know.

Then her face shifted. An incredulous, amused smile appeared on her face. She blinked, snorting softly. Something dropped to the bottom of his stomach, his body suddenly feeling cold and numb.

She leaned back, the lamp above their heads casting eerie shadows across her eyes, almost like a black mask.

"Naughty boy John, _naughty_. Trying to cheat mummy with empty plates. When you gave it _all_ to the dog."

"Goddamn it, stop talking like that and listen to me – just listen!" he yelled, struggling against his restraints, his wrist throbbing painfully. But Harley just looked back at the wrist, she looked hungry. Her eyes glowed with something that John hadn't noticed – if he had seen madness before, this was something else.

She wasn't wearing gloves, his blood was all over her hands, and some even on her dress.

"Pain will bring you back to us." She said with finality, before digging in the blade into his other wrist.

* * *

When the dark came now, it was a mercy against the light. Because in the light, he could see what she'd done to him. He felt everything, the pain all over again. In the dark it was easier to pretend that it hadn't happened. That his wrists weren't...mangled, flayed open. His chest ached, not because of the screams, but because of how short and fast his breathes had been, during.

The next day, she didn't come. There was food given to him, a stale piece of bread and a soda which they held up to his face. But she didn't come.

His wallet was still in the same place, from what he could see in the short moments when the lamp was turned on. He could see his own face in the ID picture. It was his only connection to who he was now. Was he a person to anyone else outside this place? Had his wife stopped looking, asking for him?

The next day, he awoke to the sound of the music box – and the feeling of small, gentle hands.

She was cleaning him up, washing his face. Sewing up the wounds in his wrists as gently as possible. She did it in silence until his hand twitched, and she looked up at him from where she sat on the floor next to the chair, genuine concern in her face. She stroked a hand through his short hair, and he found the sensation not unpleasant. It was the kind of touch he hadn't felt in months, it was intimate.

"Oh precious, someone has hurt you. But it's okay now, everything is going to be _just fine_..."


	14. Chapter 14

_Author's note: In the next chapter some actual plot will evolve, and something terrible will happen to jerome (like you didn't see this one coming if you watch the show)_

* * *

 _And everybody wants to get evil tonight_

 _but all good devils masquerade under the light_

\- Turn the lights off, Tally Hall

* * *

At night, unless a robbery or another of Jeromes many hi-jinks took place, the "lost boys" dispersed in the streets long into the night. Some went to drink beer with the homeless people under the bridge that led to Bludhaven, while some mixed in with the general population – doing everything the normal people did, except they never paid for anything. Sneaking into movie theaters and being loud and obnoxious, hiding behind pillars to scare old ladies. People might have whispered the name of their gang, but they acted like they didn't know what that was.

One of the unspoken rules – never get caught, especially not in smaller groups. You'd rather die than get caught, and die laughing. That was his legacy, his promise to them all. They'd always have fun, as long as you didn't think about tomorrow, or where you'd be in five years. No one in the gang ever did, as most of them were from arkham anyway.

Harley couldn't care less where she was, as any place held enough stimulation for her since most of her world took place in her imagination. Jerome was one of the few people who could reach his hand into her brain and live in it. Knew how to direct her mind towards what he wanted her to see.

She was stretching on the floor of the common room when he came in, dressed in what appeared to be new clothes. He must have sent someone to get it for him, because Harley hadn't seen him leave their home all day.

He clapped his hands to get her attention, the sound loud enough to mimic a gunshot. He struck a pose and glared at her, mouth smiling. He was wearing what you'd call normal clothes – a dark blue button down shirt and grey jeans, along with regular grey sneakers – except there seemed to be some sort of red gunk stuck to the bottom of one shoe. Perhaps he had made a little visit to John in the basement.

"We're hittin' the town tonight baby! So put on your sunday best and wash your face." he exclaimed, doing a little twirl on the spot.

Harley just wiggled her toes and glared at him, trying his patience. She loved doing that, god know why.

"Not in the _party. Mood_." she muttered, still intent on stretching one leg after the other, hair falling into her face. Jerome rolled his head back and fell into a heap at her feet, playfully groaning – but eyeing her like a shark. He crawled towards her, hands twitching.

"Daddy has been very good recently, keeping you fed, giving you toys to play with..." one his his hands reached her outstretched foot, letting his fingertips touch her ankle. His words together with his touch was saying something else he had given her too, and she liked that. But he was disturbing her, so she shook off his hand (gently) but he kept staring at her, shark that he was.

"But I bet you didn't remember that it was my birthday last week." she muttered, ending her stretch to roll up on the dirty floor in a fetal position, turned away from him. The floor creaked heavily as he moved across the floor to grip at her blonde hair that was splayed out behind her, his red-knuckled hand petting it like a favored pet.

"Well, do you wanna bet that daddy is sorry? So _very_ sorry?" he said huskily, voice grim. It took her awhile to answer, and he took advantage of this to sneak up on her from behind. She huffed, still a little upset.

"I know you're not and -" she didn't have time to finish what she was saying, which was the plan. He snuck a hand to her ribs and one around her shoulders, tickling her stomach and making her scream and laugh. Playfully she tried to get free of him, kicking her legs and swatting at his chest.

"Mices squeak if you catch them-" he said, and she finished it for him, having heard it from him so many times.

"-so lay a trap and silence will reign, hah! I know, I know!" she said through giggles, bad mood evaporated.

He was lying on top of her now on the floor, holding her wrists in his hands which could do so much damage. She seemed content to have him there nonetheless, and he stared at her for a few moments, the cogs in his mind always at work. Some of his red hair was hanging in front of his eyes, giving him a wilder look.

"So, what did you want for your birthday?"he finally asked.

* * *

The store clerk at Shrecks Toys wasn't used to having a teenage boy for a customer. Usually, the teenagers took one look at the toy store and fled the scene. This one was relentless, stalking the shelfs and comparing dolls like it was a matter of life or death.

Well, she assumed that he was a teenager – it was the way he moved. Loose and a little too precise, like he was trying to reign something in. _Hormones ,_ she thought with a roll of her eyes before she approached him.

"Sir? Can I help you with something?"

"Actually, uh yes. I have a huge problem."

"Okay?"

"Well see – I'm trying to find a Suzy doll with black hair and pink slippers. And all I can find are these...what the hell is this?"

"Those are Anna-beth dolls, which are also quite nice..."

"No. You don't understand how important this present is – it has to be the Suzy doll..."

"...with black hair and pink slippers, yes. Well, let me check if we have some left."

"There better be."

The clerk didn't know why, but she felt incredibly relieved when she did find that they had one such doll left in stock. That young man was giving her the creeps, even though he hadn't really done or said anything too strange. Maybe it was the way he eyed the doll when she showed it to him, like it was some kind of holy grail. He paid in cash, the bills crumpled and greasy, but acceptable.

"Do you want it gift-wrapped?" she asked, and he nodded vigorously.

"Yes – do you have purple wrapping paper? It's her favorite color."

"Whose sir, if you don't mind me asking? Your little sister perhaps? A nephew?"

"No, she's my girlfriend."


	15. Chapter 15

_Author's note: Don't worry folks, the story is not over yet!_

* * *

 _So tell me when you hear my heart stop_

 _You're the only one who knows_

 _Tell me when you hear my silence_

 _There's a possibility I wouldn't know_

\- Possibility, Lykke Li

* * *

She had been shifty all morning.

She had scratched at her arms, biting at her fingernails until she bled, wiping it off against her white angel dress, one of the many dresses that Jerome had gotten her from goodwill bins and shopping malls. This one was meant for a christening, in white lace and with heavily embroidered cuffs.

She had been sitting all morning, by their kitchen table, looking at the cards. They had been telling her generally good things, colorful things – moonless nights and bloody carpets headed by an army of little men with spears. But now, every fifth card would hold a surprise ; a bright sun, a deer unharmed and staring at her, questioning. Her hands had been shaking, bloody – but then she had wiped it off when she heard Jerome coming home. Tonight was the night, and she couldn't spoil it. Not now – because this was the night that the party would take place.

The party where they would take out the merciless insect that pushed them around.

Everyone was preparing for it. Stocking up on _supplies, party favours, catering._

The plan was, as he had told her, was to kill Theo Galavan, and his annoying little sister. Then, and then, they would celebrate. And it all started by blowing up the charity ball with fireworks. Then they would come back to the hideout and eat cake, he had promised that there would be strawberry frosting on top. He had stroked her cheek gently like a daddy should, and his skin had been so warm.

* * *

Harley came to the basement before she went out with the others to the ball. She had changed clothes, and was wearing a soft pink ballerina tutu with a matching top in silk, pink slippers on her slender feet. Her eyes were hidden by a silk mask studded with fake diamonds, which glittered almost as much as the real thing. Her pale hair had been combed, and fell down over her back like silk.

John no longer sat on the chair, and had been delegated to wearing a shackle around his neck that had been drilled into the wall. He didn't turn to her when she entered, didn't acknowledge that she was there at all. The room smelled, and he smelled as well – of dried blood, dirt and sweat. And a sweet, dull smell. He was crouching, his face against the wall that held him imprisoned. He looked like a wild thing, clothes torn and hair messy.

Harley smiled gently at him, bending down to his level. She began stroking his back with the tips of her fingers, he turned his head slightly, but he did not look at her.

"John, did you ever have a...bad dream?"

He didn't answer, and she continued to stroke his back, deep in thought. His eyes saw nothing in the room, not even her. He had been like this since she pulled out his fingernails. He had been here now for a long time.

"Or rather, a sense that a bad dream is about to begin...that's what it feels like." she said, picking up a white feather from the floor, dragging it gently against his shoulders, arms and back.

"You'll have to catch it for me John. Catch this bad dream so it won't hurt me, alright? Will you do that for mommy?"

This time, for the first time since she had entered, he shifted on the floor, glancing behind him to look at her. His brown eyes were splotchy, the pupils small pinpricks. But he saw her, not the wayward teenager, the little girl, the sadist, or his jailer. He saw _her_.

"Yes, my princess. John will stop it... _for you_."

* * *

On the way to the charity event, everyone was in a very good mood. Thing were finally about to go up for them, mayhem and chaos would reign because he said it would, not anybody else.

They took several cars, knowing that they had to ditch them once they were leaving for the night.

Harley was not in the car with Jerome, which was unusual, but it happend. Sometimes she chose to be with her children, rather than their father. It was a tactical move, showing them that she cared enough, could think of other things than being by his side.

Bronco was sitting at the wheel, blasting music from some random radio channel playing only old 70's music that seemed to amuse him, bobbing his head back and forth, the gap of where he front teeth would have been making him look like a big, chubby baby. She patted his shoulder and he beamed at her in the passenger seat – their eyes mirroring each other, dark and anticipating the fun ahead of them.

Though one of the songs that came on the radio, while it sounded happy, had lyrics that made her suddenly remember her earlier feeling of unease. _Goodbye my friend, it's hard to die when all the birds are singing in the sky._

The staff welcomed them as being part of the nights "entertainment" and showed them to the backstage area. Everyone in the gang was in costume, so they could not be recognized. Most of them were dressed up as toys, or circus performers. It was a good disguise, because it allowed them to act however they wanted without raising suspicion. They playfully spooked the guests on their way in, weapons carefully hidden, or tucked away.

Jerome was dressed in a tuxedo, complete with a top hat and a fake beard, a magician.

Harley was a dancing puppet, meant to dance between the dinner tables as Jerome put on the performance as planned by Galavan – only he didn't know that right after Jerome killed the deputy mayor, he was going to come after him. He had thought of everything.

She was just adjusting the straps on her silk top backstage when he came to her. She didn't notice him coming in, he could be so quiet. She only noticed when he decided to tickle her in the side, making her squeal and try to push him away, only to drag him to her so that she could kiss him soundly. He had temporarily taken off the beard and his hat, and she couldn't resist moving her hands through his red hair, gripping it in fistfuls as their kiss consumed them both. Jeromes fingers were digging into her hips and his breath was ragged, almost a growl. He looked like he could break her into pieces, only, there was always an urgency in his kisses, as if he couldn't get enough of her.

When they parted for breath, her red lipstick was all over his mouth. She smiled and made a move to wipe it off, but he stopped her, shaking his head. His eyes twinkled devilishly.

"I like it like this."

She cupped his face in her hands, gazing at him meaningfully for a long moment. Then, smirking, she said:

"I'm so proud of you, brat face."

To that, he could only answer with another childish nickname.

"Couldn't have done it without you, vomit troll."

* * *

Right before the performance began, Harley was standing at the back of the large room, behind all the guests at their tables, hidden away behind a pillar. It was time soon.

As she was standing there, listening to the drum roll form the orchestra, she couldn't for some reason stop thinking about the first time she'd met Jerome. He was about to commit suicide. Not because he genuinely wanted to die of course, just because he simply could.

They all thought that he was the one who had found her, picked her out. That he had been watching her for weeks before he got to know her. But that was not true.

It was she who had found him, behind the school in the old P.E building. She used to hang out there to be alone, away from everyone else at recess and at lunch. She used to eat her sandwiches there, practice her ballet, though she had been out of practice for years. Her mother couldn't afford the lessons anymore. She had come to practice in the afternoon after school when she had heard a strange voice from within. She had stood there for a few minutes, listening to him talk before going in.

"Lets see if we can do it this time, since once, twice, three times is apparently not enough. Not even close, as a matter of fact. What was that? Fill it up with all the bullets, why, that would be..."

He paused talking when he heard someone move. His back was turned to her in the dimly lit exercise room, standing a few feet away from her. Dust motes floated through the air, giving the illusion of fog. He was wearing normal clothes, but he was holding a gun to his temple. For some reason, she got the distinct impression that he was playing a game. But not a usual one.

"You're not going to do... _that_ are you?" she asked quietly, timid. He turned around to face her. She realized that he was not that much older than herself, and yet he spoke like an adult. He grinned at her with closed lips, shrugging at her question. There was something funny about him, something that spoke to her from the start.

"Well that depends, see I am currently ah, running short of people to play with. I always win you see."

"Oh."

"Do you know how to play? " he asked, holding out the gun to her, waiting for her to grab the handle.

And accepting her fate, she did.

* * *

Everything had been going so well up until then.

Then Galavan stepped out from the shadows, and caused Armageddon.

* * *

At first she didn't understand what had happened. She didn't see how deep the knife went.

The moment Galavan stepped aside (the gang was already shooting at him, screaming profanities) she dashed across the room to get to him. He was lying down now on the stage, the mask and the beard gone. She took off her own mask, and she dimly heard gasps from people around her.

But all she could see was that wound on his neck, and how much blood was running out of him, leaving him, abandoning his body. No.

She tried to press a hand against it to stop it from seeping out, but it wasn't working. Why wasn't it stopping?!

Harley leaned over him, looked at his face, into his eyes – but they were glassy, empty and staring up at the ceiling. She grabbed his arms and shook him, and then shook him again, desperately. Her vision got blurry. He was still warm in her hands, so why wasn't he looking at her anymore?

 _You know why. You know what has happened, and what can never be taken back._

He is gone now, he has finally left you here all alone, just like mommy and daddy.

A startled sob escaped her, and she covered her eyes and cried. A broken sound left her that seemed to echo, because there was nobody left to come and comfort her tears anymore. But she needed to see him, be close to him. It was hard to move him, he was so heavy. But she got him in her lap, clung to his upper body that was now getting cold. His eyes were still open, and he was getting heavier and heavier. Blood was beginning to soak her dress completely, but she wouldn't let go of him.

It was only when the police approached the stage, tackling her to the ground and sedated her that she finally lost him, sifting through her fingers like sand.


	16. Chapter 16

_Author's note:_ Warning, this chapter gets EXTREMELY dark and includes rape, so if that is not your cup of tea then kindly sit this one out and wait for the next chapter (which will be considerably lighter in tone)

* * *

" _What will happen to us?" I asked. "There will always be us," he answered."_

\- Just Kids by Patti Smith

* * *

 _GCN: We interrupt this program to bring you information directly about the incident at the Gotham Charity gala, held earlier this evening. It seems that it was under an attack by a well-known gang called "The Maniax". At this moment it is still unknown if any of the guests were injured, but we have information saying that the leader of this gang, Jerome Valeska, has been killed. Theo Galavan, local politican and runner up for the new mayor position, defended himself against Mr. Valeska with a knife, causing a fatal injury. He managed to save the young billonaire, Bruce Wayne, from being shot to death by the same gang leader, who was openly threatening the boy with a gun._

 _Several members of the gang were caught by the police, and are now being questioned and eventually, put to trial. Among these members was seventeen year old Harleen Quinzel, after much debate has been confirmed as the now dead leaders right hand. Not only that, after the police discovered the gangs home by an anonymous tip, they found the previously missing John Mcmillan, chained up in the basement. Due to Quinzels and Mcmillans display of traumatic behavior, and Quinzels medical history brought to light by her previous high school councelor, the police are sending both for psychiatric evaluation at the Arkham Asylum._

* * *

The faculty room at Arkham was more lively than it had been in years.

It had been, ever since that kooky new patient arrived, along with her human pet. That's what they were called in here, where the gossip didn't seem to stop. Doctors, who only a few days ago had been slumping and sighing wearily over their cups of coffee, the job draining as always, were now gathered in groups, trading information in hushed voices. The local media and the press had latched on to the story of the young girl – and soon everyone was curious. Even the doctors were well aware of the violent exploits of the Maniax gang, and the little pixie who had shadowed their every move.

"I heard that Dr. Arkham went down to see her the other day..."

"Did she talk?"

"I don't think so, otherwise we would have heard something. At least she didn't hit him."

"Well some of us are lucky."

"Is she still gaslighting us?"

"Think so. Her story changes every time she tells it. But she is sad, that's plain to see."

"Well you would be too if your psycho boyfriend stabbed himself to death."

"No idiot, he didn't commit suicide – Galavan got to him. Imagine that, having your boyfriend murdered in front of you, poor girl. "

"You think she's got a chance at recovering? I mean not just from this recent trauma, but from, well..."

"...The dafodills dancing in her head? Hate to say it Charlie, but I think we're looking at a future paved with barred windows and kiddy sized scissors."

* * *

They had put her in one of the striped dresses first. But after she indecently exposed herself at every given moment, they soon rectified this decision and gave her the male uniform instead.

That first day when the police came by to interrogate her, she'd been given something to calm her down – it took a strong dosage to get her to stop kicking everybody. But once it hit her system, all of her anger went out her tiny body, and she became a normal teenage girl with damp eyes and a red nose. She had been given one other thing to keep her calm.

The bunny. It was the only thing left of him that she could hold onto. It still missed an eye, and it had been well-loved, its brown fur bleeding tufts of cotton. They didn't know why she clung to it so much.

Gordon didn't want to interview her at first – he had been disturbed enough by Valeska and his laughter. Though he doubted that this girl was in any condition to laugh. Her eyes were so haunted. There was a story here that he felt was important to hear.

"why did you go with him, Harleen? I mean...you said yourself that you knew already that something like this would happen at the beginning. Why go through all that and end up here?"

"Sometimes when you see a light, you just have to follow it, you know? It's like...when I met him, everything just made sense – and not just school, the people there, or where any us were going to end up – I just knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life making him _happy._ "

"So killing people, torture – that was the only way to do that?" he asked, trying to get her to understand that what she had done was wrong. But it was useless. She merely sighed and looked away from him.

"Someone like you will never understand it. And how can you – you need your brain as scrambled as _his and mine_."

Gordon found that a strange thing to say – especially since Jerome was no longer alive.

"Was it you who tortured Mr. Mcmillan? You know he's been clamoring to see you, and he's refusing to eat until he does." at that, Harley smiled for the first time since the interrogation had started.

"He's a sweet boy. I simply made him sweeter."

After the interrogation it was decided that Harleen would not go to jail. She was not yet eighteen, and her mental state was, as concluded by five of Arkhams top doctors, in pretty bad shape. She'd end up hurting more people if she was allowed in to a regular prison, so it was decided that it was best to keep her in a place where she could be put on every muscle relaxant and tranquilizer known to man if she ever stepped out of line.

* * *

Not to mention, the lovely psycho-shock therapy program!

The other inmates were curious as well. They always were, with newcomers.

They knew that she had been claimed by someone very dangerous, and also that the person in question was now dead. Therefore, it was techincally easy to think that the girl was easy pickings. Nobody was there to protect her, and she had no friends in here except for her human dog that was put in isolation the minute he got here.

When he didn't get to see Harleen, he bit a guards hand until it bled.

But still, they held back for the first few days. As if waiting for something to happen that never did. But after that, the protective ring around her diminished, until nothing was left.

Her first confrontation took place in the mess hall. She had been allowed to eat with the other inmates so far, since her behavior had been good. She hardly said much, wandered the halls and scratched at her wrists and stared at people, but she never hurt anyone. That would soon change.

The man who confronted her, another inmate, was looking at her with a mocking smile on his grimy face. He was standing in her way to the trash bins. She was a foot taller than him, but height was no match for insanity – in Arkham it was the same currency as gold. A bullet already on its way to the target.

"Move." she ordered. He did not obey, which was foolish. Instead he looked her up and down, a knife made out of a toilet brush poorly conceiled in his pocket

"So you were his girl huh? "

"I was his woman. I am his wife." she said in a dreamy voice, and he sniggered.

"Heh, sure you are blondie. Not much more than arm candy, I bet."

"I said, _move_."

"Hey, you're not his...woman, anymore are you? So why let this amazing body go to waste..."

She was the bullet. Not him.

Harley blinked, just once. Then, before he had a chance to back away, she pushed him down to the floor and landed on top of his torso. From there, it was easy to snap someones neck. Just apply pressure to the head with the heel of your palm while keeping the shoulders down with your other hand and….

Snap.

It was kind of like eating seafood – the same kind of snap, only deeper, more resonant. It echoed through her like a lightening bolt, and for a moment, she felt better about herself. The joy of it eased her sorrow, if only temporarily. And it sent her to isolation for 3 months. But the respect she gained that day from the other inmates was permanent. Of course, that didn't stop people from _trying_ anything.

It was only a shame that she couldn't keep the bones she broke, or she'd make a mobile out of them to hang above her cot in her cell.

* * *

She wouldn't admit that he was gone until one of the guards stole her rabbit. They were the only ones who got it through her head, despite how much the doctors had tried.

They were cruel, and rough on her because they had all the power in here. Not even being mad could save you in here. Not always.

One night, she awoke suddenly and realized that the spot beside her was empty. That her companion which she clutched in her arms every night was not where he was supposed to be. It drove her into a frenzy, as she paced up and down the small cell, scratching at her arms and whimpering.

"looking for this?" a gruff voice spoke from behind the bars of the small gap in the door. The guard held up the rabbit in the dim, blue light. She ran up to the door and reached out with her hand through the bars and he held it away.

"Now what can be so special about this? Huh? " he said, waving it around in his hand. She didn't answer the question.

"Give it to me." she ordered. He didn't even look at her.

"No."

"Give it to me!" she yelled, like a petulant child. He chuckled and shook his head.

"Just like that? I don't think so."

She was not going to say what he wanted to hear. He wanted her to beg, but she wouldn't.

"I have to have him." she said in a low, dark voice. Her eyes were watering, and looked as dark as the night. He scoffed and watched her through slinted eyes.

"Its just a fucking stuffed toy. But tell you what, if you really want him..." he said, then gestured to his belt, undoing it with one hand. She swallowed back the urge to vomit.

"No. I won't do that."

"Hey Jerry, fetch me that lighter would you?"

Her eyes got wide as she watched him quietly, beyond being able to speak. He got the lighter and held it experimentally in one hand, the rabbit in the other. It was stupid to ask what he was about to do, because she already knew.

"You have a chance to save him, don't you wanna take it? "

Just as he was about to lower the rabbit over the open flame, she stepped back from the bars.

"Wait!

He looked up and waited expectantly.

"Promise you'll give him to me after?"

"Sure thing, I swear it. Promise you won't hit me in there?"

"I promise." she said sweetly, drawing an X across her chest. Her eyes were still wet, but the tears hadn't shed.

He unlocked her cell and stepped inside, leaving the rabbit outside. She looked up at him with her hands behind her back, giving him her most angelic smile as the tears began to fall.

"Pretty girl like you shouldn't cry." he muttered, stroking her cheek with one hand.

Her face of gentle sadness contorted to rage within seconds of him touching her. It was harder with this one, to get the upper hand in a fight. He was so big, and her limbs too desperate. He got her wrestled down on the floor, grabbing for her underwear as she kicked him in the stomach.

"Say it."

"Never."

He shook her roughly by the shoulders, almost yelling.

"Your boyfriend is dead, so what does it matter if you fuck someone?"

That was when she understood – and she floated away from the situation, into such a state of shock that he thought she was numb to everything around her.

He had carried his keys in with him to the cell. It was easy to grab for them while he was busy. But rather than using them to escape, she used them to beat the shit out of him until there was not much left of his face. After he had... _after_ , he hadn't expected her to suddenly lash out. Keys were sharp – especially so if you were used to blunt objects. His eyes would need surgery, and the roof of his mouth was caved in, tore open in rough, short jabs. He was writing on the floor of the cell when they found him – half-blind and unable to speak because of the amounts of blood gathering in his mouth – all that came out was a wet gurgle, like someone struggling not to drown.

Harley was put in isolation again, but this time no further charges were put on her – deeming the incident based on self defense, after they saw what he had done to _her_.

She never saw the rabbit again.


	17. Chapter 17

_Author's notes: soooo I know that Pamela Isley does not exactly exist in the show (goes by another name, different age etc) but here, she does. Jerome comes back soon, I promise!_

* * *

After the attack on the guard, rumors about her spread – and she changed in the face of others.

Other inmates no longer gave her long, threatening stares. Nor did anyone try to get inside her pants. They had heard what happened – some of them had even heard the guard screaming as it was happening.

So she clicked into place with them – no longer stood out like a sore thumb. No neither did she gain any friends. Miss Quinzel was no innocent woman, put in the wrong place at the wrong time. In truth, if she really had wanted to be cured of the madness that floated through her veins, Arkham was the place where it could happen.

It was a major facility with over 90 doctors on staff, and there were people who got out of here, healthy and well in mind as well as body. People who got their benediction in the form of pills and spewed out secrets.

But Harleen would never be _her_ , only Harley Quinn. And she looked to gods, and voices from around her that did not belong to reality. She would have conversations with unseen partners, always looking up. This would happen frequently in her cell and in a quiet corner of the common room. Her medication may have made her more...serene, but it did not stop the hallucinations. Some of the patients believed that they were not hallucinations at all.

It was a well-known fact that Harley could not be trusted to sleep in an ordinary cell. The doctors knew that she would bang her head against the hard walls, kick and punch at them and never stop – not even when when she got hurt by it. That just seemed to be the whole point. Even though she had rights to take walks on her own, and visit the common room, she rarely left her padded cell – soft cushioned walls and carpet floor her place of sanctuary.

* * *

And since it was well-known that she usually kept to it, Pamela Isley had no trouble seeking the girl out.

"Psst. Hey, babygirl – you hear me?"

Harley was busy watering an imaginary garden of lilies, bending over to look at the invisible stems. Pam growled with annoyance.

"For god's sake, here."

A small, green object was flung into the cell, bouncing on the floor a couple of times and Harley blinked. A tiny seed.

"What's that?"

"It's time for you and me to split. Wait for me at the back of the building, at 4 am. Do not be late."

* * *

They hadn't met under conventional circumstances. It rarely did in almost derelict asylums.

It was back when Harley was new, and had been guided around the facilites by one of the doctors, giving her a brief introduction to a few of the patients. They had been walking through the cafeteria, when she had spotted Pam for the first time. She only did (tragically enough) because her hair was red, and that reminded her again. Pain, pain, pain, pain. But curiosity too.

"Who is that?"

"Uh, some of us call her poison ivy."

"Why?"

"Just….don't let her touch you okay?"

Of course then she just had to touch her. Simply marching up to the unsuspecting woman and poked the heartshaped freckle, on her cheek. The woman's skin was an oddly greenish color, her hazel eyes widening as Harley smiled at her. Green girl looked shocked. She was older, perhaps somewhere in her thirties. There was an anchor tattoo on her exposed bicep, which made Harley think of pirates.

"Boop."

The redhead frowned, but really she was confused.

"What are you doing, you're not supposed to do that! She yelled, standing up from her seat at the table. Harley shrugged.

"Why not?" she asked, eyes boring into hazel ones.

She quickly found out though, when Harley's whole arm was covered in a nasty rash and she passed out on the floor, She came to a few moments later, only to look up at the redheaded woman with an astonished look on her face and say "Whoa, your eyes are really something" before passing out again.

She woke up a few hours later in the medical wing after having been given an antidote and a firm reprimand never to approach the redheaded woman again. Red. It was a nice color.

* * *

"You're really stupid you know."

"And you have really nice eyes. Wanna swap?"

" _No_."

* * *

Harley left her alone after that, content to be by herself or to order John around when they were allowed to be in the same room. His wife had visited him the other day and said that he had eaten the get-well flowers she had given him, except for one, which he saved to bring to his "Mother".

But there was something about Harley that Pam just couldn't...abandon.

Pam herself was doing time for just poisoning her ex-husband after he made her into the creature she was today, that was hardly something driven by madness – it was just pure anger. But Harley was the real deal, balls to the wall insane. She knew what the girl could do – had seen a demonstration of her savageness many times. But she also knew that Arkham was slowly killing her.

Because, she was not going to ever get well – and Pam respected that, she clearly didn't want to.

But it also meant that she would spend the rest of her life in here. And from what she could tell, the girl did not even harbor a thought about making an escape. She may have been capable of much, but logical thought was not one of her strong suits.

I mean...what can you expect from someone who just tried to eat legos?

If someone had told Pam a month ago that she would be braiding another girls hair and talk about boys, she'd cough up a lung and go talk to Dr. Leland about upping the dosage of her medication.

It had started with this innocent little comment. She had been reading one of the old gossip magazines lying around in the common room when Harley had sat down next to her, staring at her hair like she wanted to eat it. She probably did.

"You have very pretty hair." she said reverently. Pam just turned the page and didn't bother to look up.

"I know." she answered dryly before continuing to read. Harley sighed, sounding very much content with that answer.

"I'm going to count the stripes on my pants again." she said out loud, and Pam patted the girl on the back.

"Okay."

Then, glancing up to look at her, she was startled to see how unruly and dirty Harleys hair had become. Did the girl not know ANYTHING about regular grooming? It was just made worse by how unbothered Harley was by it, like it was okay. It made Pam feel a twinge of...something, for her.

"Right, come on." she said, grabbing the girl's hand and stepping out of the common room. Harley followed, bewildered.

"Where are we going?!"

"On a trip to the salon,you mongrel."

* * *

Pam knew the gentle art of getting what you wanted at the asylum, even if it wasn't available. So naturally, she had the luxury of having both hair comb and a tiny compact mirror and some hair ties.

As she smoothed out Harleys fair blonde hair, the girl in question had asked how she ended up at arkham. Pam had shrugged, thinly concealed contempt at mankind close to the surface.

"Well, you know how it is. Mad scientist decides to sacrifice his girlfriend because she knows too much – and wham, you have your first hybrid human/vegetable. "

And here was when Pam could have asked about Jerome. She, along with everyone else in this place, knew what had happened and that Harley had somehow been involved. But it was still a mystery what this seemingly happy-go lucky girl had to do with someone so brutal. She couldn't deny being curious about it all.

But she didn't need to ask about him in the end. Whether it was the calming act of brushing her hair or the sharing of their pasts, Harley began to talk. And Pam listened, which was what nobody else had done. And as she talked, a little bit of Jerome shone through, that little bit of him that was still inside her and would never leave.

"We shared a lot of laughs. And the darker it became, the more fun we had. I guess that was how I...lost him. We were too excited. "

"I'm sorry Harley."

"Death was always there for us, waiting. We danced close to the needle. He gave me a gun as a wedding present, did you know that? Then we buried it by an oak tree close to my old school, only to be used if one of us died."

Pam stopped combing her hair and stared at her, hard. Harley turned around and stared back.

"You're not going to use it though, right?" she asked carefully, reprimanding.

In answer, there was only a cryptic shrug and black coal eyes that were inherently someone elses, and Pam suddenly felt that she might have to follow Harley around for a while, when they got out.


	18. Chapter 18

_Author's note: If you like this story, please write back to me or review!_

* * *

 _This thing is slowly taking me apart_

 _Grey would be the color if I had a heart_

\- Something I can never have, Nine Inch Nails

* * *

 _GCN: Theo Galavans new position as mayor has been followed by success and well-wishes, and he has not shied away from the issue of health care and housing for the homeless. However, he has remained quiet about the recent leak from Gotham Central hospital, where an informer claims that the bodies of numerous notorious criminals have gone missing from the morgue. This has been a matter of extreme concern to the board of health and the local police force, not to mention the relatives of the deceased, who cannot bury their loved ones. We will be back with further updates and the weather report at 9 pm, until then, have a pleasant evening._

* * *

Harley may not have been the best at following directions, but she wasn't stupid.

She was waiting for Ivy in the wet grass when the other woman arrived. Arkham offered a meager little place where the inmates could go outside, complete with two planted trees and a small, drying patch of grass. At night, it looked even more depressing than it did during the day. All the windows (with bars on them on both sides) were dark, but a guard would come along soon to patrol the area. The brick of the large building looked made of mud in the dark, betraying the filth and horror that lived on the inside.

It was tough sneaking out, but as Ivy had explained earlier, this was the only way to do it. For once, Harley looked eager about the prospect of escaping, shifting from foot to foot impatiently. Ivy noted with some degree of annoyance that she also was barefoot.

"Do you still have the seed I gave you?"she asked, hoping that she hadn't eaten it.

Harley rummaged around in the pocket of her prison garb and held it out in her palm. Ivy smiled briefly, nodding to herself.

"Good."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Harley, when I told you what had happened to me, I wasn't telling you the whole story. Whatever happens now, don't be afraid."

And with that, she flexed her green fingers before settling her hand on top of the seed in Harleys hand. At first, nothing at all happened. Then it exploded.

That was what it looked like at first, but there was no sound. Harley dropped it on the ground, and watched as the seed began to grow and stretch into thick vines that leapt across the concrete ground like a quicksilver snake, making its way up and over the concrete wall leading to the outside world. Harley's eyes widened to saucers and she began clapping her hands with childish excitement, to Ivy's immediate dread. She quickly stilled the girls hands, grabbing hold of her wrists – wearing leather gloves so that Harley wouldn't be exposed to her skin.

"Stop that, you'll alert the guards!" she hissed, and Harley quieted down, still smiling and eyes burning bright.

"Sorry." she whispered demurely, and Ivy rolled her eyes yet again.

"Never mind, come on. Let's climb up this thing and get out of here."

* * *

Nobody saw them running across the muddy grass and into the forest glen, quiet and quick on their feet. Ivy had killed a guard that patrolled outside her cell, and soon he would be discovered. It wouldn't take long for them to come looking for ran to the main highway and walked alongside it, hidden by trees and ditches filled with garbage left behind by hurried drivers.

There was mud running up Harleys legs, and the striped pants were beyond dirty at this point. But it seemed that, the dirtier she became, the more alert and awake she was. Ivy appreciated that, because they would both need to be when they made their way back to Gotham.

After another hour of walking, she pulled Harley aside.

"We need transportation. Think you can get us a ride?"

It was lucky that the car wasn't speeding when Harley stepped out on the road. It was unclear if she even knew if it would stop or not, but it did, tires screeching and the smell of burnt rubber rising in the cold air.

There was an elderly man sitting behind the wheel, his eyes wide with shock at the sight of the young woman on the road, barefoot and dirty. But to his credit, he did not drive off when Harley approached the drivers seat and asked him to roll down the window.

* * *

"Thank you for giving us a lift sir." Harley half-whispered, sitting in the backseat. Ivy felt it was best if she was at the back, otherwise she would probably have started playing with the radio or poking the drivers nose. They needed to remain normal for the next 40 minutes or so, until they reached the city limits.

The elderly man nodded, eyes on the road.

"My pleasure little lady. You and your friend look like you've been through something awful." he said. It was funny that he hadn't noticed that they were wearing prison garb, but then again, he looked like the kind of man who didn't notice these things – he was probably from Smallville.

"We were wandering and got lost." Ivy offered as an explanation. The man frowned a little, but it was a concerned frown.

"Didn't you know where you were going? Didn't you have a map?" he asked. In the backseat, Harley was busy dragging her nails against the fake leather seat, eyes growing more and more horribly empty.

"I used to have it, but it's gone now. We're going to be lost forever." she murmured. Ivy gave her a look before laughing awkwardly.

"Err, what she means is that we lost our cell phones -you know how it is."

"Oh yes, kids and their gadgets today."

* * *

When they reached the Haysville area of the city, Ivy made the man stop the car in an empty parking lot, where she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. Harley made a sound of surprised delight when the man fell over the steering wheel, dead. They stole money out of his wallet, and Harley slipped into the man's large boots and jacket. They stood shivering for a few moments by the car, taking in their new surroundings. Ivy was calm, her whole body a weapon ready to be used – with any luck, they wouldn't run into anyone else tonight. But if she had to, it wouldn't be difficult to repeat what she did in the car.

"I know of a place nearby where we can spend the night." she whispered, then made sure that she was still wearing gloves before she grabbed Harleys hand and together, they walked away.

Haysville was an area of Gotham were a lot of families with children lived. Thus, it was near empty on the streets at night. Nobody saw the two young people walking hand in hand down the sidewalk, and they didn't see them enter the small chapel at the entrance of Rootsville Park. It had been closed for almost a year for repair work, being in a very poor state of neglect.

But it was empty of people, and a heater that made it warm and comfortable at night. There was a small room in the attic where books and leftover pews were stoved away. An old mattress was propped against one wall, and they put that down on the dusty floor to sleep on.

"Tomorrow we'll look for something else, but this will do for tonight. " Ivy said, taking off her shoes stolen from the hospital, before lying down on the mattress, rolling over to face the tiny window in the attic before promptly falling asleep. Harley laid down next to her carefully, making a cross on her chest with a finger where her heart was. Then she rolled over on her side and cried, wanting to go home to a home that was no longer there.


	19. Chapter 19

_Author's note: If you're sitting there wondering when Jerome is coming back, relax. He will return in the next chapter!_

* * *

 _Field of light_

 _They hold me inside_

 _Count my stars_

 _They're all lucky in the sky_

\- Lucky by Mazzy Star

* * *

The sun was shining strong and pale yellow in the morning light, hitting her eyes and stroking her arms with golden touches. Harley watched the sun through the dirty window, breathing in deeply and closed her eyes. This was her favorite time of the day. She arched, and her body followed as she did a slow loop in the air, her hands holding onto the makeshift rings of fabric in the warehouse ceiling. She looked like an astronaut, drifting in and out of complicated patterns, almost weightless.

It was a good 15 foot drop to the floor, should she slip and loose her balance.

"Hey Monkey face, come down here." Ivy called out, her voice echoing in the large space. She was standing over by a makeshift kitchen area, loading up a syringe with a milky white liquid. There was wildflowers growing in her red hair, and wherever she went, plants and vines tended to drift towards her like she was the sun. Their entire living room looked more like a forest than an indoor space. Life on the outside had been good to Ivy, letting her talents merge with nature once more.

Less could be said for the girl currently hanging upside down in the ceiling, taunting the flesh eating plant in the corner of the room that tended to chop and snap its jaws at her tendrils of golden hair. Ivy had tried to get her some more decent clothes, but Harley persisted in wearing stuff taken from the goodwill bin. She rarely ever washed her own clothes, or herself for that matter, unless Ivy shoved her in the bathroom herself and locked the door. Privately, she wondered how Jerome had dealt with this, because living with Harley was proving to be very similar to living with a small, agitated five year old.

Harley swiveled her body towards Ivy, watching her work for a moment before swiftly climbing down to the floor, using an old ladder connected to the wall. Their home had once been a warehouse for Gothams fishing industry, which had been completely shut down since the water in the harbor had become too polluted for the trade. They had been living there for a few months now since their escape from Arkham.

"What is that?" she asked, gesturing to the syringe Ivy was currently holding. Ivy smiled, her greenish lips heart shaped and innocent looking.

"Only my greatest creation. Hold out your arm for me." she said. Harley looked down at her outstretched hand and at the syringe and visibly flinched. Ivy huffed and sighed.

"Oh come on, don't you trust me?"

Harley eyed the syringe like it was going to attack her by itself. Then she crossed her arms and looked very much put out, the shadows under her eyes becoming more prominent.

"I just don't like getting shots. It's icky." she murmured. Ivy tapped the syringe and observed it with a clinical air.

"This used to be my line of work, trust me – it'll be over before you know it. " she said reassuringly, even as vines began to snake up Harleys legs from behind – they were pesky like that, always trying to get attention. She kicked at them, and they made a hasty retreat. She tilted her head and looked at Ivy, biting her lip.

"Will you make me an ice cream sundae afterwards?" she asked, her voice quiet and childish. Ivy nodded patiently and beckoned her over.

"With sprinkles and a cherry on top, sugarpants. Now come here!"

But Ivy had been a big liar, because it did hurt. The liquid burned in her veins, like pop rocks but not so pleasant.

"Ow!" she hissed and clutched at her upper arm when the deed was done. Ivy rolled her eyes and patted the girl on the back.

"There, that wasn't so bad was it?"

"What was that, anyway?"

Ivy shrugged enigmatically and gave a very evasive answer.

"Just a little something I mixed together. You might feel a little dizzy for awhile, but that's gonna clear up. "

"And then what?" Harley asked, frowning suspiciously. Ivy looked back at her, smiling mysteriously, like they were sharing a big secret.

"And then, you won't ever have to take another anti-venom shot again. I've noticed that you get burns and rashes, even when I haven't touched you directly. But now, even that won't be a problem. You'll see. "

* * *

Ivy spent a lot of time in her lab, which she had built. After all, she had been a biological researcher before, and she was not going to quit working just because she was a mutant.

But now, her goals were very much different. Now she was working to make sure that plants could protect themselves from the human race, instead of helping the humans try to control nature. Given time, she would give nature the power to fight better than any humans could. Harley had just gotten a small dose of what she was going to be capable of creating.

 _Hah, those fools. They think nature will remain languid and still while men plot to destroy it? We shall see about that._

If she ever did go out, it was only to sneak into the city parks, to gather data and tissue samples from the trees. For all other chores, she sent Harley. Since she was the one who looked more or less normal, it was easier for her to move around without being seen or recognized. Not that Harley really cared about being recognized or not, she was too crazy for that.

But she did understand that if she got caught again, chances were she wouldn't see Ivy again for a very, very long time. She also didn't want to go back to the Asylum, and she didn't want to get raped again. She never said that last part out loud, but Ivy had figured out what had happened. It was part of the reason why it was so hard for her to take a shower sometimes, because afterwards she would start to cry and complain about "missing pieces" and curl into a ball on the floor, murmuring about what the guard had done, over and over again.

It was rare for Ivy to feel sympathy for anyone else but herself these days, but with Harley it was real. She wanted to find the person who had made this damaged girl even more damaged, but at the same time she realized that it was not going to be enough. It was up to Harley to resolve the matter, if she ever chose to do so.

* * *

The name Harley Quinn was being blasted on the news. It had been for a few days now, ever since Harley had robbed a masquerade shop downtown, and afterwards setting the building on fire. She hadn't been alone. A few of her lost children had been with her as well, leaping together with her in the dark for the first time since she'd been put away. It wasn't a usual reunion between friends, but it started with a prank and laughter. She was by herself at first, pestering the shop owner and stalking him, before finally throwing the first stone through the shop window. The crashing sound it made was like a call to arms.

She turned around on the street and they were simply there, as if they had waited for a signal to come calling. Like zombies they were, slowly coming out of the woodwork. Or perhaps bad behavior in Gotham was simply contagious. Harley saw Bronco somewhere, and she resisted the urge to cry at the sight of him. How beautiful he was.

She had written the name in colorful letters on the ground with chalk, the shop owners blood smudging the letters slightly. It had been a wonderful night, the fire from the broken windows warm and bright, the smell of chemicals and melting plastic thick in the air. Glass splinters on the concrete that made their own pattern of stars.

This time, nobody thought of her as Harleen Quinzel anymore. Now she was Harley Quinn.


	20. Chapter 20

_Author's note: Sorry about the glitch folks, and thank you for alerting me about it!_

* * *

 _GCN: As gang violence and riots are becoming a staple of city life in Gotham, teenagers are speaking out about their own views on why so many prefer violence and living in groups – stating that the school environment is in some cases, too stifling and evokes extreme stress and depression._

 _Jessica, student at Gotham Academy, 16 years old: I mean this school is fine, but like, I can only imagine how bad it must be if you're already feeling like shit, and your family treats you the same way, and then not even the teachers you come to see everyday can give you the time of day, you know?_

 _Michael, 17 years old, student at Eclair Public school : I knew this one guy who got expelled last year, because he threw a desk and a chair out the window of his classroom. He was in pretty bad shape before that, and he saw the counselor a couple of times a week – and the principal still made him go through this extracurricular program to pay for the desk, despite the fact that he was so down he couldn't even get out of bed._

 _GCN: Though the local police force has managed to discourage riots and other acts of violence during the day, the numbers of actual arrests made have been few. Later today we will get a statement from Commissioner Gordon on the current situation…_

* * *

Rumors are a funny thing. Depending on what they contain, they either spread like slow fungus, or they eject into every vein of society, lightning fast. Nothing can stop it. You can't cut it down like you can with trees, or try to contain it like a decease. Rumors are too clever for that – language instead of coughs are normal, so nobody notices how the rumor develops, or from whom. There is no patient zero.

There's been a secret bubbling under the surface of Gotham, bubbling like a witches kettle, slowly, slowly upping the heat of the flames.

Nobody has yet mentioned this to her, because they know and fear her reaction to the name. They know of her pain, as deeply as if it were their own (it is real, this pain) and so they do not speak of it, and let her wander and they do what they do best, they follow. Those who do follow her, and do not join in with these new people and their fake leader, the one who speaks his name yet does not know what it means and is not him. They scoff as this person and his stolen words and choose to keep close to the other source of him, the woman who became a widow before she'd turned 20 and now dances less like a ballerina and more like a ferocious animal./p

But that is not the secret that needs to be told.

Even though the fake leader is stealing what is not his, interesting tidbits have been showing up in his many monologues about the future. "The body" is being referred to often, and how it will be made to rise once more. That the dead can be made to come back, and that it will happen soon.

But at best, it is still a rumor. So, even if she should know about the location of his resting place, they do not speak of it. They all know how close she is to that edge that will put her asunder, and make her bathe in inky black water for eternity. They cannot loose what is still so precious, the source of their make belief world where they can be hit by bullets but still go down with a smile. A world without her too wouldn't be a good place to be in.

So they say nothing, and let her think that her beloved is gone forever.

But it is not true, not anymore.

* * *

The lab is smelly and hardly ever cleaned. But then, it's only been used for people who were going to die – not for people doing the reverse.  
The body is pale blue when pulled up on the stretcher – it takes two of them to lift it. Even in death, Jerome is smiling, a sweet mouth and pretty eyelashes that look like they belong in a storybook. But you can still see the venom of that smile, even if you didn't know who he was. He has not changed since he last closed his eyes, frozen in storage like a piece of meat ready to be eaten.

Dwight wants and yet cannot respect the one who is (and should) be the leader of their people. So when he does not respond to the treatment guaranteed to bring him back, it is not hard to see what he must do in order to maintain order, to maintain the attention of everyone else.


	21. Chapter 21

_Author's note: Oh my gosh, so this is an exciting chapter. As always, hope you enjoy and please review!_

* * *

 _A two- headed doctor walked on the water_

 _and buried a lemon outside my door_

 _he turned and laughed, threw up his hands_

 _when I asked him what it was for_

 _-_ Black Cat Bone by Laika

* * *

Ivy was pleased to notice that none of Harleys little strays ever came to their home – she had feared that it was going to turn into some kind of youth hostel. Lord knows how many times she had caught footage of them on television, running away from a huge fire or a recently defiled building.

If they ever did come near their home, they waited a few blocks away from it – never crossing the threshold. Neither women knew it, but they were too afraid to do so. They might have sworn their lives to chaos and mischief, but they still cowered from the deepest shadows, not because they feared what was there – but because they knew that going into that pit would lead them to a certain death.

But Harley could get her children to go wherever she wanted them to. Most of the money they earned was because of this particular skill. On days when she felt specially wicked, she'd make someone come home with her. Maybe they'd survive it, but they wouldn't be the same afterwards. Ivy wasn't part of what happened on those nights, and mostly stayed out of whatever games that Harley wanted to play. They seldom had a painless outcome.

The only one who was welcome at all hours was Bronco. Probably because he was the only one who could face them both without a shred of awareness of how dangerous they were. She would light matches and put them out on his bald head, as he smiled happily like a small child. If Ivy didn't stop her in time, she would begin to throw lit matches at the floor too.

He was also a playmate, someone she would play checkers with (she always had to move the checkers for him) and draw funny pictures with crayons from the dollar store. He was big, dumb and completely devoted to her.

When Ivy wasn't there to see it, she would hug him and let herself be sad and small for a couple of seconds – and then she would hurt him, make his body as raw as she was so that it (maybe) would finally go away. It never did.

One day Ivy came home in the afternoon to find them having a tea party in the washing room, five little dolls staring up at her from their awkward positions on the floor. They were dirty, stolen things Harley had found alongside the road, or thrown out in dumpsters – some of them missing their chubby limbs, but still having their dead smiles plastered on. Later they decided to play master and master's pet.

It doesn't really need to be explained who was the pet and who was the master.

"I'm taking him out for a walk." Harley sing- songed, tugging on a leach that lead to the large, burely man, who barked happily. Ivy nodded absently from her position by the kitchen sink, where she was testing one of her new growth serums on a neglected orchid.

"Alright, be sure to bundle up though – it's going to rain." she said, not looking up from her project.

The door closed with a metallic screech.

* * *

Through her eyes, the world was full of things in hiding. Each new building, and each new window concealed dark figures of myth and fantasy. Usually this train of thought would occupy her enough when Harley was out walking, but the rain made everything a little too true, too real.

Instead she focused on treating Bronco like a mutt, kicking him away from sniffing at dead rats in the gutter. Her boots (taken from their getaway driver) were too large, but perfect for a rainy day. Nobody looked at her funny here, most of the people who lived in this area of the city were criminals like themselves anyway. She wore a large parka (borrowed from Ivy) and had the hood up over her head – underneath she wore a nightgown, the kind that grandmas wear with lots of frills and bows.

"Good doggie, want a snack?"

"Whoof, whoof!"

She fed him a bite of a candy bar she had in her pocket, a more innocent snack than the other three wrapped razorblades she had on her.

He wasn't walking on four legs, but that didn't mean that he didn't act like a dog. Bronco stopped occationally to wag his tounge and wait for his mistress to catch up, or he stopped to growl at a cat passing by.

So she didn't consider it strange when he began to sniff at the air suddenly, tilting his head from side to side. Then he barked loudly, straining on the collar and leach. His blue eyes were glowing oddly, with urgency and excitement. It was contagious, and soon Harley was just as excited about whatever it was that Bronco had noticed.

"What is it boy? Have you seen another cat?"

He shook his head and whined, pulling more and more on the leach that kept him tethered to her. She let go and he took off running down the street, away from the industrial area and into the heart of the city, close to the Narrows. What was it that he had seen, from so far away?

He led her to a place she hadn't visited in years. The carnival, last time she had seen it, had been abandoned and broken down. Maybe it was all in her mind, but it wasn't abandoned anymore. There were people walking around, wearing scary masks and makeup. She hadn't noticed when it had become nighttime, but now that it was, she saw that all the lights in the carnival were on, and so was the merry-go-round. Turning round and round, knives held high as people rode the ponies in infinite circles. Some of the faces were hidden, people driven here by force.

The people in the park weren't ordinary. She recognized some of them – they wore that badge, the clown smile. She had seen it in passing, doodled on buildings and as tattoos. It was the mark of Dwights people, she knew. It was sacriledge.

Harleys eyes bled out and she looked at Bronco, a wide, dopey smile on his face. She held his chin in her hand and made him look at her. His smile fell away, and he was once again a blank canvas, ready to do whatever she asked of him.

" Find out why the park is open – come back to me when I need you."

* * *

She left him there to investigate further herself. They hadn't entered the park through the main entrance, but through a hole in the metal fence surrounding it. The carnival was right behind the park, where people seldom went, since the only other thing available here was a junkyard. That explained why Dwights people would be able to set it up like this and not be discovered by anyone (yet).

A group of masked people ran by her, all of them carrying different kinds of homemade weapons (and rubber chickens). But nobody stopped her, or even took much notice of her getting in to the carnival. They must have thought that she was one of them.

Everywhere she looked, the park seemed alive with activity. An old confectionary stand was handing out cotton candy and a large arrangement of weapons. Another offered you to try and hit a tied up woman with feather darts, the woman whimpering occationally as an arm or leg was stabbed with tiny darts.

The rest of the carnival offered similar attractions, and she actually cracked a smile at the tank full of piranahs, with a waiting, panicking person waiting to dive into it on top.

But Bronco hadn't brought her here without a reason. There was something more here to be seen. She could feel it. It was something almost...celebratory in the air. Like candles lit on a birthday cake, ready to be blown out.

She walked right by him at first. Didn't think – didn't and couldn't see who it was. But there was a tune to his spirit, the only one that sounded like random piano keys being pounded on. It came to her and she shivered, not daring to turn around. She stood there and listened to the voice that came out of him.

"...and they want to open up your rich-boy veins and bathe in your blue blood."

And then, not because of what he had said, but because she had heard his voice so clearly, she promptly leaned over and threw up.


	22. Chapter 22

_Author's note: Things are sure getting very dramatic! Thanks for reading and as always, please leave a review._

* * *

 _You are the first and last_

 _and I can't compare to that_

\- Lost Ocean, by Vast

* * *

Many years ago, back when she was five years old some relative died and she had to go with her mother to the funeral. A five year old with black eyes and a black satin dress, her scalp red from how hard her mother had brushed her hair. She had worn an ugly dress that scratched at the collar and shoes that pinched her toes. There had been a cake served at the wake, and naturally the other children made a game out of how many pieces they could eat. She came in second place with eight pieces.

She had thrown up all of it over the rug in her grandmothers house, and all the adults had been watching, staring.

The situation she was in now felt sort of similar.

Many eyes turned to her and the retching noises she made. An awkward silence followed. A few of the goons knew who she was, she could tell. They shrunk back at the sight of her, some even looked away. But not _him_.

She wiped her mouth drunkenly, feeling dizzy and sick, could not look at him directly.

He looked away from the young boy with so much money to look at her. He was taken aback for a second. And he smiled, cocking his head. He was wearing a hat (like last time) and a straitjacket. Was he a ghost? Was any of this real?

Harley looked at him with wet eyes that burned, implored him to explain everything. Instead he kept on smiling casually, walking towards her.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" he looked back to his goons, as if they had brought her here. He put an arm around her shoulder and she started frowning, searching his face.

"Too many spins on the roller coaster is good enough to make anyone sick sweetheart, maybe... I can offer you a nice beverage to wash that _dirty mouth_ of yours, hm?" he asked, leaning in to her face with the goal to make her scared, his expression sinister. She took a moment to drink in his appearance. His smell – gunpowder and dirty socks, was still the same. He was somehow taller, more angular than she remembered. The matter was not his face peeling off, put in place with staples. It was the fact that she did not recognize his _eyes._ But he was still her god.

"Jerome." she said, or croaked. His eyes widened playfully, excited.

"Ooooo so you do know who I am? This is good."

From a distance, Bruce Wayne was watching them, puzzled. He remembered the girl, but it appeared that someone else clearly didn't.

"I do. I've said those words before. So have you." she said quietly, and he laughed at her, not understanding.

"Really, so we've met? How interesting, where?"

Harley began to shiver violently when he touched her, and she could not speak. Because here he was, somehow reborn and yet, he did not remember her. She saw it, not because of what he was saying, but that look he was giving her now, was the same one he gave ants and critters, people he wanted to rip to shreds. When she didn't speak, he shrugged and moved away from her.

"Well, doesn't matter. I'm going to kill you no matter where you're from." he said, taking aim at her with a gun he pulled out from nowhere.

But he didn't get the chance to hit her, because when he pulled the trigger, a large body knocked him aside.

* * *

"Now look what you made me do."

Somehow, Bronco had found her just in time. She didn't get to eat the bullet, he took it for her instead. Broncos eyes were wide and lifeless where he was now lying on the ground, a puppet with its strings cut. Jerome was standing over him, shaking his head in reprimand. He was still talking to her. Tears were falling freely now down her face, her eyes going red and purple.

"And he looked like such a reliable fellow too." he said, poking at Broncos body with his shoe. Laughter in the background, and more screaming – an old woman getting her dentures knocked out of her mouth. But none of that could hold her attention. Jerome looked back at her, opened his jagged mouth to say something but stopped himself, something about her appearance puzzling him.

"But that's not what's got you bawling, is it? No.."

The initial sting was starting to disappear, and now he just stared at her in open confusion. Because it was obvious that she wasn't crying out of fear for her life, but because she was heartbroken about something.

Before either of them could say anything more, she took off running.

* * *

She didn't run home – there was nowhere to go for how she was feeling now.

She took temporary sanctuary under the dome of the city library, the front steps slick with rain but she sat down there anyway. For a remarkably bustling city, people seemed to flee at the sight of rain. It was just her and a city of water now, mirroring her state of grief.

A wise person once said that the death of a loved one is hard, but it is even harder when your identity vanishes with them. When all you ever was, was for them. It didn't matter if she could go on, because he had made her a ghost. This Jerome did not want her anymore, did not even remember who she was supposed to be. Her role had been scrapped.

Harley did not know how he had come back, or why – it didn't matter. The man who had loved her, had married her, was gone. She had lost him, again. Only this time, the reminder of him would parade the streets, and she would not be able to forget him again. He would not let her.

After she had let the tears take over for awhile, she fought for something to do. Could anything comfort her now? No, nothing except…

The gun. The one they had buried underneath the tree by her old school. This thought made her feel better, made her happy. She got up from the steps slowly, and started her journey to the tree, to where the storybook was going to be fixed, and made well.

"It's alright, I am just erasing what should never have been – I've always wanted to become a ghost, rather than a human being. "


	23. Chapter 23

_Author's note: And once again, another cliffhanger - sorry about that! There is however, a 101% chance of a reunion in the next chapter._

* * *

 _You see, there's this huge chunk of me missing_

 _It's gone_

 _And I can't feel it, I can't feel it_

 _I can't feel_

Stupid thing, By Nickel

* * *

After she had gone, the party continued without signs of stopping. Though eventually, he knew that it would – not how of course, he didn't care about that. The point was that it was all in good fun.

Chasing the little dark lamb into the house of mirrors was proving to be most thrilling – if a little annoying. Who knew lambs could say so much without trembling? Though the struggle, the effort it took him to beat the light out of his eyes – now that was pure poetry.

Looking around at his image in the mirrors, he twisted the gun around in his hand and couldn't resist a smile. Their images were blending together nicely – perhaps they should pose for a portrait.

"Oh Brucie o'l boy, come out and lets work this out. Fair and square."

"Is that what the gun is for? I wouldn't call that playing fair."

Jerome twisted and turned around at the sound of Bruce's voice, that was both far and near. It was impossible to tell where the devil he was. Oh, such trickery.

"Aw shucks, can't even let me have my toys huh?"

He forgot what he was going to say next when he caught sight of himself in a stretching mirror – making him break out into high-pitched giggles. Somewhere, a loud sigh was heard. Without showing hints of movement, his dark eyes went to a corner of the bizarre room where a shadow was moving around on the floor. His fingers played against the trigger of the gun playfully, the taste of metal spreading in his carved mouth.

"You know, this turned out to be way more fun than I was expecting."

* * *

It was more fun breaking mirrors than it was looking into them, he discovered. It was always more fun breaking beautiful things rather than just look at them.

"Like you broke that girl's heart?" Bruce suddenly asked sharply. Oops, he must have said something that he was thinking out loud. Jerome's shoulders fell back and he rolled his eyes like a petulant teenager. He was tired of playing hide and seek.

"You know what, wanna be a hero? Then let's do this your way...man to man. " he crouched down and slid the gun away from him, then slowly stood up.

When Bruce didn't appear immediately, he shrugged to himself.

"Well kid, cowards aren't known for their bravery are they? Just like your butler buddy..."

Quite like a howler monkey, Bruce appeared and threw himself at Jerome from behind, knocking them both to the floor of the strange room. Anyone will tell you that fighting a crazy person is a bad idea. But it's only a bad one if only one of the two happens to be crazy.

There was perhaps something to be said about Bruce that many had yet to figure out, and most never would. He was a teenage boy with a broken home, a bank account that would never run out of funds. He was shy with girls and spoke softly at home even though no one was around to be bothered about the way he spoke.

Not only the mirrors in the room gave off a reflection. The two people currently wrestling on the floor, although neither realized it, had the exact same look in their eyes. Determination and something else much darker, that rare fire that only few people had – those who committed their life to one single thing, and would continue to do so for the rest of their lives and put it above everything else.

* * *

Bruce's punches were like kittens falling on his face, so of course he had to laugh through a mouth full of blood. He shook his head at him and stood up, wiping the makeup off with his sleeve.

"Why did she come to _you_ Jerome?" he asked calmly, and on the floor Jerome stopped laughing abruptly.

"What?" he asked, his voice again suddenly raspy, caught by surprise. Bruce didn't register this, and continued his tirade.

"What's more, she still comes back to you. Why, what kind of hold do you have on her to act that way?"

It was such a completely different approach to the beating that Jerome sat up, for some strange reason feeling snappy and defensive. His red hair was standing on end and he was bleeding in several places, his face particularly.

What really angered him though, was that he had no idea what the kid was talking about.

"Forgive me for being a nut, but I'm afraid you've lost me." he said through gritted teeth. Bruce seemed taller somehow, his dark clothes swallowing up more and more light in the room. If he still was just as angry and determined for revenge, his expression did not show it.

"That young woman outside. She was your confidante, back then. You kidnapped her, didn't you?" he asked accusingly. Jerome snorted, very amused. Then it became a full on burst of laughter, leaning back to lie on the floor. His teeth were getting stained pink and red from the blood in his mouth, making him look even more unhinged. Finally he calmed down enough to draw a breath and say something in return.

"You do have your head on backwards if you think that I would ever let a useless thing like that ever become my-"

Maybe it was the laughter that did it. Or maybe he heard the familiar click-click of a particular gun across town. His brain had been sleeping for a long time in freezing cold, naturally he couldn't remember every single thing at once. He had jumped on the first, brightest thing in his memory – taking out the rich kid and have a good time while doing so.

But other, brighter and deeper things were tugging at him now – like branches from a tree growing inside of him. No, not branches – fingers, pale arms. Hair that was pure silk, blonde and wanted him to hold on. A smile that was not his own, but one that he craved even more.

A person. With a name he'd given her.

Everything else came rushing back so fast that he completely forgot about the kid still in the room with his fists red from his own blood, still waiting for him to – to what? He was so distracted, so angry.

She'd been here, _she had seen him_. When? An hour ago, and what had he said?

He stilled on the floor, like an animal in pain, not daring to move. Then a low, strange noise came from him that had Bruce backing away. A low sort of growl that made the mirrors shiver from the vibrations of the sound. A sound that made Bruce recall nature documentaries of hunting predators, deep in the throes of instinct driven behavior.

When he left the room in search of Alfred, the sound of breaking glass followed him like the sound of a thunder storm fast approaching.


	24. Chapter 24

_Author's note: So much moody drama here folks, it feels only appropriate to read this chapter while listening to evanescence on repeat._

* * *

He has the option, he understands, to simply let it happen.

Nobody would be surprised if he did.

He even wants to let it happen, on some level – that place inside him which is always a raging storm that exists just to cause destruction, to innihalate everything he touches. Call it extreme Nihilism with a dash of acid on the side. No reason for any of it, and yet, so many reasons.

But it is impossible, even for him, to escape that feeling. That stuff she filled him with whenever she was around, always looking to him for comfort, for guidance. Always looking at him like he was someone she could die for, happily.

And though he cannot admit it to himself, if she dies, he'll always be searching for someone just like her. With the exact shape of her lips, same disjointed doll parts, and that flow of golden hair which he loved to tug at, wrap his hands around when they were fucking. Perfect silver green eyes that look almost blue when she plays with her toys, tortures grown men with a cheese grater. He would look for someone like that, and not find her – he would force and kidnap and whip someone into pretending, but it would not be the same. Agony.

He knows that if she dies, that will be the only thing waiting for him.

* * *

It doesn't take long for him to reach the school – only 20 minutes or so.

Enough time to do it though. _Once, twice, how many times it may take to get it right._

The football field is empty and all the lights are off, a thin layer of fog gathering just above the grass. The school building is in similar condition, and in the dark it looks more like ruins of some ancient civilization.

* * *

There were three bullets in the gun. Harley opened and counted – decided to do a practise round.

Most sensible thing to do, she thought.

Fired off one shot against the nearest tree – the wood splintering magnificently upon impact. _See, this is what your brain is going to look like._ She's calm now, when she knows where she's going. Calm but sad, resigned. Knowing that she'll become a ghost to haunt and scare the living shit out of people has her pumped. Hopefully she won't feel this same ache when she's transparent – or maybe she'll forget completely. Wander aimlessly and forget things like a goldfish. That sounds lovely to her.

A startling noise escapes her throat and she covers her mouth, trying to make herself shut up, to stop crying. Leans against the tree and looks down at her feet. Not sad about dying, but because he broke his promise. He once said he would take care of her – and he didn't. He left her all alone, and then _it_ happened again, and he had said that it wouldn't, had promised that she'd never have to be made to do something like _that_ again.

The sound of her crying does not go by unheard.

He is standing a few feet away from her, face unreadable because of the darkness. She has not noticed him. His tall shadow is something out of a horror movie, the killer who has finally discovered his unknowing victim. Except she is the one holding the gun. She's still leaning against the oak tree, breathing fast like she's either hyperventilating or dying already. She's taken off the parka, now dressed only in the nightgown, even though the air is freezing.

The gun has been lying in her limp hand, which she suddenly lifts close to her face, and then up to her temple.

His eyes flash, even though there is no light to reflect his eyes, the pupils blown wide in the dark. His voice is near demonic when he talks, brought from a place he does not use very often.

" _Don't_."

It's just one word, but it makes her hand holding the gun tremble. She is standing with her back turned to him. It's just the two of them now, as it should be. But she doesn't lower the gun. The stretch of trees and bushes surrounding them are far too idyllic for what's going on – its a place where students go to smoke between recess or make out. But it's where they first met, so maybe it's fitting that it should end here as well.

Harley has begun shaking her head, gun still pressed against her temple. He dares to take a step closer when she doesn't do anything more. Watching carefully, he starts talking again.

"Your daddy has been asleep for a long time. He was...confused. Before. You know what that's like." he says, trying to be soft but his voice is too raspy for that. Looking to see if he can grab the gun from her so she doesn't notice.

But she must read his mind, because she turns around then, to look at him. And the stars, and the birds, and the trees…still beautiful.

Meanwhile a familiar _click-click_ is heard, and he realizes that she's readied it for herself. He swallows, hard. Trying not to show how much this alarms him. Old Harley would have dropped the gun, run to him with open arms. This new model is different – he could always tell instantly what was on her mind, but he finds it difficult to do so now. There's nothing there in her eyes, only terror and grief, a calmness that freaks him out a little.

Something happened when he was away to make her like this, that much is certain.

"You playing our old game, honey? Come on, give the gun to me and we'll play together, just like old times." he tries, but she doesn't buy it. She's watching him like a stranger, looking over his shoulder slightly as if someone else is standing there.

"You don't know me. Only _he_ knew what he promised."

"And what was that?"

He doesn't get a reply, instead she holds the gun tighter and pulls the trigger. They say that it happens fast, for a bullet to reach its destination. And it does – its over in just a second. But the shock of her actually wanting to...that lasts for a long time.

* * *

She's lucky that he was in training at the circus for one of their regular tricks – catching bullets. He has just enough time to push the gun away from her head and straight into his palm. It goes _bang_ , not like a kid's gun but like a real gun, like thunder. She shrieks and covers her ears, as his palm begins to billow with smoke, a gaping hole at its center. If it's painful, he doesn't show it. He flexes his fingers and looks at it with fascination. It oozes blood, first in spurts and then slowly, before he covers it with his other hand tightly and hisses.

She's hovering nearby, crouched down on the ground, watching him with her hands still over her ears. Some of his blood is on her face, in artistic droplets running down her cheek. He watches her, anger making him growl low in his throat – but it stops, and he pulls himself together, looking up at the dark sky to try to beat some semblance of sanity into his head before he kills her himself.

 _We don't want to do that._

 _Why?_

 _Because she needs you._

He giggles. But it's not a happy sound, it's dark and slightly manic – desperate. He hates her for needing him so much. Needing _him –_ hardly the perfect husband material. Someone who thinks about murdering his wife as much as he thinks about kissing her. That gun had always been for her, rather than him. It had amused him before, the idea of her dying romantically because of him – the perfect joke.

Movement at the corner of his eye startle him out of his thoughts, Harley trying to edge away from him. If its because she wants to attempt it again someplace else or to get away from _him_ , he doesn't know.

"No. _Don't move_." he tells her, black eyes searing and she stops moving, still near the ground on her knees. He gets up and sits down next to her, still pressing his other hand over the damaged one, but blood is beginning to drip from it steadily. Trying to reach her where she's hiding in her mind - he can do it, because they're both insane. He knows what she needs.

"Look at me Harley. You know it's still me, _here_ \- " he near growls, frustrated.

He brings the torn hand with the hole in it and rests it roughly over her heart, covering her with red. She looks down at it, then up at his face. His other hand goes to caress her cheek, smearing his own blood. It smells murky, like iron and sweet meat. Familiar and real. Giving it to her so willingly. His touch is familiar too, and she closes her eyes at it, almost by default.

After she's closed them, he cannot help himself anymore. He must taste her, must have her. With one hand on the back of her neck, he guides her to his mouth, which is raw and still healing, but when she bites into his bottom one, the pain of his re-attached face is all but forgotten. She moans like she's still not sure, still sad – but he swallows that sound too, chases her mouth when she tries to turn away. Then something changes, her cheeks turn rosy pink and her breath changes pace.

Somehow, she starts to climb onto his lap – and the kiss turns almost bruising, both of them wanting to possess the other. She cups his face (none too gently) in her hands as his hands grab fistfuls of her nightgown at the back. He's already hard when she begins sliding off his jacket, and he helps her dispose of the pants. Even though both of them has changed, this still remains the same – they still fit in the places that count. The air is still electric when they lock eyes, a hundred different things being shared in seconds.

* * *

Afterwards, they lie in the grass and look up at the night sky. Their breaths come out in small clouds and its really too cold, but not that much after what they just did. She fits snugly tucked against his chest, his arm around her. She's crying again, and he doesn't ask why – but he will at some point. Will draw out all her secrets, one by one.

"I'm me." he says to the night sky.

"Yes." she whispers back, nodding. Eyes too wide and haunted, still. He runs a hand down her hair, and it turns rusty red. He smiles down at her.

"Good girl. Now, who are you?"

"I'm...Harley Quinn. People are afraid of me."

"That's right. And what does Jerome do if he ever finds Harley doing something she's not supposed to be doing?" he asks, waiting patiently for the answer. Harley fidgets against him and sighs, trailing a finger over his chest playfully, but there is no smile on her face.

"She gets punished. No cookies or chocolate kisses for her."

"Very good. And What is Jerome going to do, now that he's back to take care of his favorite girl?"

"He's going to prey on orderlies who couldn't keep to their place settings."


	25. Chapter 25

_Author's note: ...and its time for another episode of three crazy roommates and a pizza place. Not really, but could you IMAGINE? As always, read and review!_

* * *

GCN: ...And leading into our top story, last night saw the return of, earlier presumed dead, Jerome Valeska. Sighted at the broken down carnival site downtown in connections to a riot, he allegedly kidnapped civilians and held them hostage until he and other ex-inmates of Gotham fled the scene when GCPD arrived at the scene after 11 o clock at night, after receiving complaints of loud noises and screaming from callers in the surrounding area. Among the kidnapped victims was young Bruce Wayne, billionaire and owner of Wayne enterprises. He has since been released, and is reportedly in good health. Not the same can be said for the other victims, as the death count rises from 20 to 30 people…

 _….Your baby only deserves the best, most gentle products to ensure a happy beginning! Why not try Bubbles, the newly developed bubble bath with the gentle smell of chamomile – a product both baby and mother can enjoy – for re-sellers, please contact-_

\- So I said to this fellow, uh, you should be watching where you're going or I'm gonna sock it to ya!

*cue laughter from unseen audience*

\- Oh Bob, you kidder!

\- Hey now Margaret, don't you be flirting with _my_ husband – he might be might stupid, but he's _mine_ aint he?

.… _.Perfect, beautiful curls of hair. Try Vertilanx – for maximum volume and a fresh scent of ripe pomegranate and silken honey…._

* * *

"If you sit like that any longer your brain is gonna come out of your nose." Jerome grumbled.

Harley was watching the tv in hers and Ivy's living room – sitting in the couch, but upside down, with her body on the seats and her head close to the floor. Jerome was sitting at the kitchen counter, getting his face properly stitched up. Ivy might not have been a surgeon, but she was at present, doing a better job than Jeromes "staple it up and leave it" method. Though for some reason, this hurt a hell of a lot more than the staples. Using a surgical needle and thread, it was a slow process.

Which gave Ivy ample time to study this unholy man who held her roommate in such a strong spell.

He was scrawnier than she would have thought. A weird blend of young and old – the detachable face making him look like he'd had a face lift gone wrong.

* * *

When they first came through the door, she thought he was someone coming to hurt them – she even told Harley to step away, her hands already reaching out towards the vines that grew around the house – beautiful but deadly in their intent. They were both covered in blood – she was right to react that way. But Harley widened her eyes innocently and raised her hands in the universal sign for "ease off".

"It's okay. It's just daddy!" she exclaimed, her eyes twin beacons of a summer lake. Then she giggled, like she'd do when she had just done something dirty. Ivy tilted her head and stared at her, confused.

"Eh?"

Jerome raised one hand, waving at her a little sheepishly.

"Hello."

Then clearing his throat, he drew Harley close to him with an arm tucked around her and grinned.

"Uhm, she's the missus, I'm the husband. Get it?"

Yeah, she got it alright. This was the guy that had kept her up at night, crying in her sleep. The one she had mourned ever since his death. The one who had been the talk of the town over a year ago. Apparently, he wasn't as dead as previously assumed.

* * *

"Ouch! Damn it woman, if you're gonna poke around under there, at least try to pretend like you know what you're doing!" Jerome screeched, baring his teeth like a caged gorilla.

Ivy rolled her eyes at his moaning, and simply continued her work stitching him up like a rag-doll. She had to see from underneath his facial tissue so that the skin landed right, so that there wouldn't be any nerve damage. He didn't scare her one bit, no matter how evil or soulless he was.

His eyes were coal black – no color or anything, as if his iris had swallowed it up. She distantly wondered if this was a side effect to his rather unusual resurrection. Must be, she figured. That would also account for his occasionally very rapid way of moving around. As if his muscles were still catching up.

But he didn't like her staring too much. Catching her eye, he told her so very bluntly.

"Keep sewing there _Jane Goodall_ , and keep doing exactly that, and nothing else." he told her in a grave voice. Not that he seemed to know that the woman he was referring to was a _primatologist_ , not a botanist. She noticed though, that he was careful not to let Harley hear him. Which made her really wonder.

Then there was that way he was watching her from across the room. Almost like a parent keeping an eye on a restless child, lest they should find a pair of scissors or a box of matches lying around. Tugging the thread extra tight, he grunted as she made another hole into his skin, leading the needle in and out.

"So, you're a husband _and_ a father?" she asked, looking at him with sharp eyes. He shifted on the counter, though whether it was because of the question or her rough stitching, she couldn't tell.

"It's complicated." he muttered, just as Harley started to hit the television in order to get a better signal – but like with everything else, she did it with gusto. Giving the machine a good slap with her open palm, the image on the screen flickered and buzzed – not looking much better.

Finally, she stopped and went back to the couch and flopped down on it, boneless. Finding some old jelly beans between the cushions, she ate them while watching an old kung fu movie. It was badly dubbed over with english voices, soft lighting and plenty of gore. The fact that she was still wearing the blood stained nightgown didn't seem to bother her at all.

But the other two people in the room had definitely noticed. Not that blood was a bothersome thing to people like them, simply unhygienic.

"Harley, why don't you go take a bath huh?" Ivy suggested.

"Not with your clothes on." Jerome sing-songed, looking up towards the ceiling as Harley giggled like a fan at an Elvis concert. Ivy looked up at him, annoyed. How the hell did he know that she always did that?

Oh right, they were married. They'd lived together.

But Ivy had been living with her too – had been all but taking care of her for the last 6 months. Sure, there were actually times when Harley acted like an adult, especially when it mattered, but usually she needed a bit of handling. At first it had been annoying to have to think of her like that, to act like her nurse and mother and best friend all at once. She lived with a complete fruit loop.

But she had been _her_ fruit loop, up until now.

Harley turned off the television and quietly walked over to another junction of the house that had the bathroom installed – more like a changing room rather than a private bathroom, since the building once had housed different shipping companies. She stopped when she got to the doorway, watching them – watching Jerome warily, as if he might disappear if she looked away.

Jerome tilted his head knowingly, and in return it made her do the same thing, like it was just another game. It looked a little creepy.

They didn't say anything to each other, and Harley seemed content enough with whatever had passed between them to leave the room. After she had left, Jerome looked at Ivy and smirked. It was ill-natured and smug.

Ivy didn't like it.

Which was why, when she pulled in the next stitch on Jeromes chin, she "accidentally" tugged a little too hard on the brown thread (pulled out of her regular sewing kit). Which in turn, made Jeromes whole body jump on the table and made him cry out for belzebub and the witches of eastwick.


	26. Chapter 26

_Author's note: Eugh, enough with the kissy scenes already. Next chapter will be a good example why this story is M rated, as there will be lots of violence._

* * *

 _And when I shall die,_

 _Take him and cut him out in little stars,_

 _And he will make the face of heaven so fine_

 _That all the world will be in love with night_

Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 2

* * *

The police was stumped at first.

Then, when it became apparent that Jerome Valeskas body had been stolen from the city morgue, just a few hours after he died, things were starting to become clearer.

"How could this have happened?" Gordon asked, following the head coroner down a long corridor. It had now been a few days after the big incident at the carnival, signifying the return of an apparently resurrected corpse. Which should be impossible.

But that's right, this was Gotham. Impossible was a very loose term in this city. The coroner led him to an office where all important paperwork was filed. He pulled out a dossier on Valeska, pictures from an autopsy – nothing had been removed our donated. Gordon looked away as the coroner examined these pictures carefully – open chest, blood and bone. That smile still plastered on.

The coroner adjusted his glasses and shrugged.

"Well, his body had already been examined by police officials, as well as myself. His body wasn't scheduled for burial or cremation – no living relatives. "

Gordon looked up from the dossier and frowned.

"But didn't anyone notice it missing?" he asked, which was a fair question.

"I only do about a third of the autopsies here. We have a total staff of five people, lots of bodies come and go. The way I see it, is that someone in my department must have been payed not to notice it missing. "

Gordon had his suspicions already, knew that Dwight was deeply involved in the matter – but that there were other people as well. Someone who had played Dr. Frankenstein in order to bring back one of the most dangerous men the city had known.

"I'll need to speak to them, if that can be arranged."

"Of course, I want to get to the bottom of this matter as well."

* * *

The bathroom had no lights in the ceiling, except for two tiny windows which let in some light during the day. At night, they had old candles and flashlights. There were a few plants in there as well – those who thrived on living in water. Pondweed, eelgrass and vines that looked similar to waterlily leaves dipped into the bathroom sink, crawled along the wall. It made bathing in the tub more like bathing in a small lake.

Harleys own addition to the vegetation was something opposite. Toys from vending machines were placed, all on a row on an indent in the grey wall. It was a hollow space that probably had housed some sort of safe or fuse box, once upon a time. Now it was a space for shampoo bottles and trinkets. The walls were painted a dark maroon, which looked like a moonless sky in the dark.

It was always dark when she came in there. She kept it that way deliberately – the only source of light was from the crack under the door that led to the hallway.

She had her head down under the water, her pale hair floating around her head like a ghostly shroud. There was no soap in the water yet, so her eyes didn't sting when she opened them – staring into the imaginary abyss. Looking for something that was never really found or expected to be found. Listening for broken rhythms that she could use later, for different purposes. Ivy had once, playfully suggested that maybe what Harley was hearing was mermaids singing. Now, she believed this to be true – much to Ivy's dismay.

Harley let herself come up for air, grasping the sides of the tub with her nimble hands, glistening skin bare. Still dirt under her nails which she won't notice. A tattoo below her left shoulder blade in the shape of a monkey with it's eyes covered by hands – Jerome had its twin tattooed somewhere, one with its mouth covered instead . She forgets where it is on him– didn't remember to look for it last time.

Her eyes brighten, and she smiles a little at the thought.

Looking at her hands, she's all but clean now from the blood – the water turning pink and soapy suds floating around smelling like peaches. She pouts a little at the sight and flicks at the water with one hand, her skin somehow being made boring without the scarlet. She pulls her knees up and rests her chin on her folded arms, puts on a blue finger puppet with boggled eyes and exaggerated carnivore teeth.

At that moment, the bathroom door opens. Jerome walks in, quietly closing the door behind him. Like he doesn't want Ivy to know that he's in there with her. It makes Harleys little black heart beat fast as an animal in the wild – she loves their secret times together.

His face is stitched properly now, the skin around the edges red and irritated, but clean.

Despite his face looking like it's been recently torn off, he looks distinctly normal. Not that he is, but sometimes, Harley gets these glimpses. Like how he's staring at her right now, sitting in the tub. He isn't leering, there's no agenda behind it – there's something so simple and soft in the way his eyes wander from her eyes, to her exposed shoulders and back, the rest of her hidden under water.

In answer, she hugs her knees a little tighter.

Monsters are not so simple to explain. They don't look like us, and usually we have a reason to hate or fear them. But if monsters are indeed, a species of their own – then they too have customs, families, emotions that maybe mirror our own. If monsters can be found among men, then they cannot escape what is already there.

Apparently deciding that he needed to clean off too, Jerome shrugged off his white undershirt over his head, exposing sinewy muscle and more freckles. There was also, the addition of a Y shaped wound stitched together on his torso – large and obvious enough that even Harley could see what it was. It didn't look fresh, but not that old either.

Her eyes darted to it like magnets, one hand rising slowly out of the water, reaching out to touch it with her fingers. But he's faster, stopping her from touching it. One large hand encircles her wrist and won't let go – not a hard grip, but a warning. Because she can never just touch, must always rip things open like a gift of candy or dolls hiding beneath pink layers of paper.

He shakes his head at her, and she lowers her hand back in the water.

For some unknown reason she's holding her breath when he removes the rest of his clothes, getting in the tub with her on the opposite side. It's still dark in the room, the only source of light a crack under the door, bathing them in stickly orange and yellow. The rest of them are blue and the water near black. When her heart is somewhere in her stomach, she takes a plastic bucket, dunks it under the water and gently tips it over his head as he watches. He closes his eyes when she begins to wash his hair, and when it is clean, she takes the opportunity to show him how good she can be. To show him that he isn't disgusting, never to her.

She lowers her head, wet hair plastered to her skin, to his chest and gently rests it there, against the Y shaped scar. Almost amazed to hear his heartbeat, a steady roar across distant skies.

* * *

To put the record straight, Ivy doesn't hate men. Individuals can be...acceptable, but it is when there's a group of them that she can't stand them. Her ex-husband wasn't a nice guy, but that does not mean that everyone is exactly the same, she know this too.

But it's easy for things to become twisted, if you look at someone the right way (or wrong way, more like).

It's easy for things to become very, very toxic when you are left with your own thoughts, and when you believe that you can only trust yourself, and no one else.

When Ivy is left alone in the kitchen, after Jerome has left, she tries not to let her hatred for this intruder overpower her. But it oozes from her, collecting and spreading through the vegetation around her, that seem to hiss and curl in agreement to her thoughts. He has come to take her away, she knows. To a life where he is god, where he can do what he likes and damn the consequences.

Ivy has a secret. The secret is that, since her ex-husband experimented on her, none of her internal organs are exactly human. Neither is her heart. She's still figuring out what that means.

But she knows that where Harley is concerned, she is desperate to keep her.


	27. Chapter 27

_Author's note: This story went from having zero real plot points to now being the beast that it is. It's safe to say that it no longer lines up with the television canon - and on that note, I do want to warn any squeamish readers of extreme violence in the next chapter._

* * *

 _I was down to St. James infirmary, I saw my baby there_

 _She was stretched out on a long white table,_

 _So cool, so sweet and so fair_

\- Louis Armstrong

* * *

Harleys bedroom was a shadowy, grey room which once had been used for storage. Concrete walls and floor, a window to the ceiling that let in some light from the stars in the night sky. A random collection of stickers, graffiti and mildew stains decorated the walls.

There was a thick mattress tucked to one corner of the room, on top of it was a large pile of baby blankets and stuffed animals – most of which were missing their eyes, or limbs.

In there it was mostly dark too, lit up using only glow-sticks, and a tiny nightlight in the shape of a rocking horse with its eye closed. No room for extra clothes, or a wardrobe.

Harley invited him inside by way of dragging him through the doorway, tugging at his hands and bouncing up and down. She had on a different nightgown now – one that wasn't covered with his own blood and looked (mostly) clean. This one was pure white in color, but it had several tears at the hem, as well on the sleeves – like a moth had chewed through it. When her hair was clean, it was silky smooth no matter how little she combed it – and now it moved freely across her back in time with her movement, her shining smile directed at him.

He swallowed hard.

She didn't notice his change of mood, instead starting to introduce him to the various stuffed animals on the bed. She picked up a soft pink rabbit with long ears, its stomach stitched together at the middle. She held him out to Jerome, wiggling him from side to side, as if he was walking through the air. Though, since its eyes looked so dead, it was just another dance with a corpse.

"This is Pinky Rabbit. He complained about a chest infection, so he had to be split open. His lungs were all black, and had to be replaced with checkers and spider legs."

She looked at Pinky and, sticking out her tongue at him in a childish gesture, she put him back down and picked up another stuffed toy and began talking to it in a chiding manner.

"And you're still being fussy about your dress, you silly thing. You don't even have eyes to judge."

Behind her, Jerome blinked suddenly, as if coming out of a deep sleep. In the small room, he looked even more larger than life, colorful and out of place.

But not out of place when it came to her.

Grabbing her by the shoulders from behind, he leaned forward, scarlet lips grazing her ear. Always electricity when he touched her. His breath was hot, and she shivered at the feeling of it on her neck. He had a way of making her be in the now when her mind was always on a tether, between the imaginary and whatever this was. Her hands that held the stuffed brown bear in her hands were starting to let go of it, getting lost in the feeling of him. He breathed in the scent of her hair and exhaled roughly, a primal sound of disappointment and frustration.

"Sorry honey, but daddy is restless – and he has things to do." he said, hands still clasped around her shoulders, but soon he would step away from her. Imprints on her arms from his fingers. When he did let go, she picked at the skin of her elbow, rubbed at the place where his hands had been in an agitated manner.

"Things that are not about me?" she asked, not looking at him, her body still facing the bed.

He backed away, now merely a shadow in the doorway – a boogeyman ready to come out of hiding. His long fingers twitched against his sides, and he flexed the muscles in his neck – making a crick-crack sort of noise that didn't sound normal.

"Oh, _everything_ is about you, precious."

Harley swallowed, her eyes shifting around the room nervously – eyes translucent and intense in the dark, searching for light but never finding it. She looked small and sad standing there by herself – an aching need in her expression that made him almost change his mind.

"Can I come with you?"

"Not tonight, my pet."

* * *

In Gotham Generals intensive care section of the building, everything had gone quiet for the night. Two night nurses were still on parole, but they were holed up in the staff room, barely awake as it was.

In one of the private hospital rooms, an overweight man was sleeping soundly – his 4 month stay at the hospital coming to a close. It had been a long journey to recovery, after all, serious mouth and eye injuries like his were hard to treat. Luckily, Arkham offered an excellent medical care for their staff, especially the guards – since they were most likely to be injured on the job.

Not that he was going back there though, no, he had enough of weirdos. Not that they weren't pleasing to look at, but just too much trouble to deal with. _Just look at where it got me this time._

His lips twitched into a smirk.

She had been wild, that one. Still, got plenty use of her before it went to shit. Pretty girls like that were just asking for it anyway – and the way she had been asking for it, undressing him with her eyes, going around half- naked in those pinstriped uniforms.

He didnt' see anything wrong with it. She had been so doped up on medication and crazy enough that nobody would believe her if she told anyone about it, and besides, she probably didn't even remember it.

The doctors had been able to replace his eyes, thanks to new developments in the surgery department, and the roof of his mouth had been fully healed, after months of rehabilitation and skin grafts. The rest of his stay at the hospital had been like a long and pleasant vacation – he even had a cute nurse, who insisted that he didn't call her by her first name, but he just knew she was lying. He would wear her down eventually. Then maybe, after he was given permission to leave, he could stop by once in awhile. He had always had a thing for nurses.

His peaceful sleep was interrupted when there was a sudden noise coming from outside the door – a loud thud, not a bang or anything like that, just loud enough for him to wake up at the sound.

Blinking, the guard opened his brown eyes and stared up at the ceiling in the dark. His eyes glanced over at the digital clock standing on a table by the bed – the red numbers flashing 02:45 am. Slowly, his heavy body sat up in bed, eyes still blinking to get adjusted to the darkness of the room.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary. _Huh, one of the nurses must have dropped something._

He put it out of his mind, went up to the adjoined bathroom and had a glass of water. However, when he returned to bed, someone else was lying under the covers. Just like the ending of a fairy tale, only he wasn't red riding hood. It was too dark to see who it was. But a chill ran down his body, and instinctively, he knew that it was neither a patient or a doctor.

He tried flicking on the light switch on the wall, but nothing happened. He looked around for the panic button on his wrist – and found nothing there.

"Looking for this, Phil?" a raspy voice asked, coming from the figure in the bed. Phil jumped at the sudden noise and yelped out loud. The figure on the bed chuckled and put a finger over his lips. In the figures other hand was the panic button. He crushed it in his fist a second later, the mechanics coming apart until nothing was left but dust.

Phil backed away to the door, tried the handle. It wouldn't budge.

The figure on the bed sat up, got off the bed and started prowling towards him. It was too dark still to see him, and yet, Phil knew that the figure had a wide smile and red eyes. They looked red, even in the dark.

Terrified, he managed a whimper before it all went dark and silent.


	28. Chapter 28

_author's note: H'ooookay, so this chapter is...very bloody. I think I told you that it would be, but just to be safe I'm saying it again :P_

* * *

When Phil woke up, he was tied to a chair.

Trying to get his bearings was proving to be difficult. He felt groggy, and not just from the blow to his head. Someone must have slipped him something – because he couldn't feel anything in his legs. _Local_ _anesthesia_ , his mind supplied. He remembered the feeling from back when he was first admitted to the hospital.

Blinking several times, he started to take in his surroundings.

He was sitting in a kitchen, that much was clear. He was still in his hospital gown. It looked like it belonged to a restaurant, or a diner – the room was full of several ovens, burners and working tables in polished steel, utensils and knives carefully placed in their respective containers. But there was no staff to be seen. Bright lights from the ceiling shone down on every surface, even a radio was playing some cheerful music. It was almost uncomfortably loud.

"Hello?" he called out uncertainly, looking from left to right. Maybe whoever it was, had just tied him up and left him here. And maybe, a staff member would find him and set him free.

* * *

An hour passed by like this, the empty kitchen and dark windows, instead of calming him down, made him more and more anxious to get out of there. He was just beginning to think that it was all some kind of elaborate prank. But then the radio started acting up, playing only static.

He hadn't looked in that direction for awhile, and therefore it gave him a jolt to see that he was no longer alone in the room. By the radio, a tall, somewhat gangly young man was watching him. Phil hadn't heard any footsteps – perhaps because of the loud music. But that was not what scared him at present.

What scared him was the fact that he recognized who the man was.

Though, some things were very different. Last time he had seen him, on television, he had been bearable – he did not frighten him, a kid barely out of his twenties that the media took a liking to because he led a gang of crazies to do his bidding. It was fodder for attention, for psychologists to chew through as a major topic for discussion on talk shows and radio specials where parents could call in and ask what to do about teenage rebellion. He had been nothing but a tip of the iceberg that was Gothams underbelly, hardly the worst of the worst.

Standing there now, in that kids stead, was someone else. A thing wearing human skin. That's the only way he could describe it. It looked like a man, and walked like one – but that's where the similarities ended. Black eyes the color of tar; slick and reflective, were watching Phil in a way that was making his skin crawl, and every instinct he had told him to _run_. Only, he couldn't. It was then he noticed the pot full of boiling water on the stove. The sharp knives laid out by the empty cutting board. Pieces of a puzzle he couldn't fathom just yet.

He glanced back at the thing standing at the stove, turning knobs on the heater. It was no longer looking at him, but there was a knowing smile on his scarlet lips, a secret dancing in its eyes.

"Wha-whats going on?" Phil asked. It was a miracle that he found the voice to speak at all.

"It's so good you happen to be awake now Phil. I was starting to worry that the drugs might have kicked you over the edge – prematurely that is. Ah, there you are kids! The food will be ready soon, just sit down."

Just behind where Jerome was standing, three figures appeared through the kitchen door. Their faces were covered in animal masks – a bear, a chicken and a pig. They said nothing as they entered, and sat down at a small dinner table laid out with plates and cutlery that Phil hadn't seen before. It looked so surreal that he had to look away. He wondered what his role was in all of this.

"Just let me go, I won't tell nobody about you!" he yelled, but Jerome just shook his head and pointed a finger at him.

"See, that's the problem. People _don't talk about me_. Well, they do, but they do not fear me, understand?" he asked, tilting his head strangely, as if it didn't fit on his neck right.

"So what do I have to do with it?" Phil asked somewhat rudely. Jerome looked away and shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, besides raping my wife you haven't done squat, have you." he said very casually, before turning to face him again, his face contorting into that. _.that thing_ that made Phil's breath catch and the air in the room turn chilly, " _Inactivity is a crime in itself_ – look at all that fat, you slob." Jerome said in a low, rough voice devoid of emotion.

Jerome poked his stomach roughly, then out of nowhere, delivered a punch to his side that had Phil coughing and wheezing for breath. In the background, the people in the animal masks made strange noises, like wild, laughing jackals. They were pounding their fists against the table, making the cutlery bounce with each movement. Through the sizzling noise of the frying pan on the stove, along with the boiling water and the rough noises of the masked men, an old song played on the radio, wafting in and out of Phil's head like a bug buzzing around him.

Jerome carried on talking merrily, loading the pot with spices and chopped vegetables as he did. He gestured to Phil with one precise hand.

"I would suggest a better diet or exercise, but those things take time. " he said, sounding sympathetically disappointed, tapping a finger against his chin before he lit up and smacked his hands together, like he'd just have a brilliant idea." Oh I know, how about surgery? And to make that a little more modern, let's do it diy style. Why pay all those medical people lots of your good paycheck, when I can do it for you?" Jerome asked, leaning in over Phil's wide body, a square butchers knife in one hand that glinted in the cool light. The images surfacing to mind was beginning to make Phil shake all over.

"P-please! I didn't know she was your girl Mr. Valeska, I swear! " he cried out, desperate to be believed.

" _Liar, liar pants on fire_. I heard a different story see, one of your old pals couldn't wait to _spill his guts_ when I mentioned you, oh no, By the way, he sends his regards. His last words were a little _choppy_ , but he did mention wanting to go home to his mother, does that mean anything to you? Didn't think so." Jerome raised the knife again and approached Phil without pause, who had started to panic.

"Mr. Valeska, I have money – you can go empty my account, you can have all of it, I swear all of it just please don't-" he was cut off by Jeromes heavy groan, lowering the knife to rub at his forehead like he had a headache all of a sudden.

"I'm getting tired of that name now, for some reason. You know what that's like, words that leave a bad taste in your mouth like soap? Its that feeling I got." he muttered, before returning to the stove.

Phil thought that if he could distract him long enough, he might be able to ease up the ropes and escape. His bonds were starting to feel loose around the arms, but he still couldn't feel his legs.

"Hey boys, you want salt and pepper with your food? You'll need something to wash the pig down with so I put out vodka on the table."

"Is...is this a joke?"

"Hm. Say that again?"

"Is all this some kind of sick joke? You're not actually going to-"

"Joke. J. J, J, J, Jerome. Hmmm. Phil, I think you're on to something there. Too bad you can't come up with a last name, or else I wouldn't cut off your legs just yet. "

There was a pause, where Phil was trying to come up with a new thing to say, a new distraction for Jerome to chew on. But then Jerome gave him a strange smile, and delivered the punchline.

"Psych, I already did."

Phil's eyes widened, and he tried to look down at his legs. A blanket had been put over his knees, and quickly he shook it off as well as he could. When the blanket fell off, it revealed two messy stumps where legs should have been. It was a messy sight – far from a clean cut, his legs had been severed high above the knee, revealing a mess of jagged flesh underneath, the blood flowing freely and too much for any bone to be visible. Pus had gathered at the edges of his torn skin, and when he breathed, he realized that he could smell iron and his own flesh.

* * *

The masked animal people at the table were making wild noises now, as if unable to control their excitement.

It was enough to make Phil sick, and shortly after he leaned over to the side and puked on the floor. Meanwhile, Jerome was watching it all intensely – a bright, burning emotion in his eyes that went deeper than just pure amusement. His response to Phil's agony was one that was almost primeval – a strange purr reaching out of his chest, that slowly morphed into his own voice.

" Don't feel a thing huh? That's what I thought. Isn't it great what medicine can accomplice in this day and age?" he said, bending down to reveal a messy, yellow bucket containing both of Phils legs – some of it in pieces, but the feet were still mostly intact. Upon seeing this, Phil started to scream. It was quiet at first, but was quickly gaining in volume. His face had taken on a chalky pale color, one that Jerome distantly considered handsome.

"Ahh...Ahhh.."Phil moaned, his eyes wide and glassy, tear filled but no tears leaked down his cheeks, as if too afraid to leave his body. A darkened stain was growing on the hospital gowns nether region. How embarrassing. Jerome emptied the yellow bucket in one of the pots on the stove before putting it below the chair Phil was bound to. While doing so, he gave Phil an almost kind smile, as if he was being very generous.

"This is bound to get messier before we're through I'm afraid." he said gently, before picking up the butchers knife again. This time, Phil knew what was going to be cut off. Jerome was hesitating between two places – his gut and the place between his legs. Finally, he settled the knife tightly against his stomach. Right before he started, he leaned in to Phils face and whispered, as if to convey an embarrassing secret;

"Now about that surgery – it won't be quick and painless, because where's the fun in that? But I will make sure you are absolutely dead by the time I get to your face. Believe me, I know what it's like to lose it." he said very seriously. And with those final words, he began to saw downward through his gut, the knife so sharp it cut through the flesh like a weak rubber suit, catching on fat and muscle occasionally which made the knife jump, and made Jerome laugh with wild abandon.

The last thing Phil saw in his life was a toy carousel on the floor, spinning in circles that pulled him into oblivion.


	29. Chapter 29

_Author's note: Finally, I give you a new chapter! This one has less blood, and instead more whoo-hoo-ing!_

* * *

 _I know a place that's dark_

 _raining all the time_

 _so cold and lonely_

 _but it's mine_

\- Deliver Me by Danny Keough & Angela Mcclusky

* * *

In the early morning, when the real staff of the diner would find what was left of Phil Parkers corpse, there would be no media coverage of the event. The knowledge of who had done it would not reach any newspaper, and so the public had no idea of what had transpired during those mysterious hours in the night.

The GCPD had, after some deliberation, wanted it that way. The details were just too grisly, and people would start to worry. Before this, the person responsible had just been another regular criminal to Gotham, where robberies and abductions were the norm. But this? This was something different – new.

He had left them a message this time. A CD that had been lodged in the back of the victims skull. When the C.S.I team came and removed it, the motion of pulling it out gave off a sticky, wet noise that had a few officers gagging, running out to find a corner to go puke in.

 _The CD in question was a recording of the events that took place – the footage surreal and unsettling. A camera had been set up at the head of a dinner table laden with prepared vegetables, potatoes and place settings. Four figures in animal masks sitting around it, waiting for a meal. The meal arrived in the form of bone, foot, legs and arms. Devoured at a pace that fit with the animal theme, laughter heard in the background – as well as the screaming. It sounded like the squeals of a pig, but wasn't. A pale face with blood and pieces of flesh hanging from its chin. Something off-camera made a popping sound, a spray of dark substance hitting a corner of the lens. The rest of the recorded footage was compromised by the camera being knocked over, only showing the kitchen floor, and bits of food dropping down from the table._

Harvey Bullock went into a rage when he got hold of it, making it his personal mission to hunt down Jerome Valeska, dead or alive didn't matter. It no longer mattered to anyone at the precinct, now that everyone knew what he was capable of. But deep down, they were scared now.

Scared, because they knew he had gotten away with it. Scared because they had seen the face of a man without limits, and what such a person could do.

Fear was starting to spread, like a horrible infectious decease.

Ugly rumors started spreading underground, among the petty theifs and the drug dealers of a video gone viral. Those who had seen it had told others, and soon Valeska became a name on everyone's lips, someone who even the most seasoned of criminals felt uncomfortable talking about. Gone was the image of the james dean psycho with a shotgun who could be knocked over with a single bullet. He was now becoming a person who had others watching over their shoulders whenever they mentioned him.

The clown prince of crime had shown his true face, and Gotham City was a shockwave of mice ducking for cover.

* * *

Meanwhile at home, Harley remained oblivious as to what her husband had been up to.

That is not to say that she was completely unaware of everything around her – far from it. She just didn't see the same things as most people did. It was just that the act of killing was just as normal for her as buying a piece of new furniture. It was just what one did as easy and natural as breathing. She was a princess strolling around her rose garden, waiting for her prince who was away, slaying a foul dragon.

The garden in question may have belonged to Pamela, and initially she forbid Harley from spending time in it, because she ripped the thorns off the branches. But now, she tended to it more for Harleys sake than her own, the love she devoted to those plants was really the love she wanted to give to the other woman, but didn't know how to express.

She would put the loveliest of them ( a defunct one, pink with red blooming mistakes in the petals) behind the younger girls ear, or weave it into her hair. Stroking her green tinted skin in innocent touches over her dead wheat hair, disguising her affection as sisterly.

But soon, there would be enough of the innocent touches, if she had her way. Harley might have been smart in her own way, but she couldn't predict what the other woman had in store for her husband. She just looked up after her braid was done at the lady with the plants in her hair, ready to tell her the latest fucked up dream she'd been having at night. The dream explained like a holy experience, or a predicament of the future, her hands tight on Ivy's green fingers. Her trust for her was total and uncompromisable.

* * *

Since Jerome's return, Harleys personal hygiene had seen a vast improvement. It was like his return had lit her up inside. She spent more time getting ready in the morning, took it upon herself to eat a proper meal once in awhile, instead of Ivy being forced to walk after her with slices of pizza or a glass of milk. She went out more, and sometimes she even managed to do so on her own.

Harley didn't know where he slept at night, but he climbed into her bed often enough that she didn't feel lonely for the nights that he didn't. In the tents they formed with their bodies and the pale pink sheets, he told her that he was looking for a new place for them. But it had to be perfect, didn't she see that? Of course she did! Jerome needed a space that could influence his work, as it was so important to him, and thus it was important to her as well.

* * *

He returned to her a few days after his underground success. He had found her in the living room playing scrabble on the floor with a few of her dolls. Her hair was smooth and combed out, falling across her shoulders like golden water tinged with silver. She was wearing a pale pink smock dress, though clean it was full of wrinkles. Her skin looked fresh and there was a healthy glow to her cheeks, an unhealthy madness in her piercing eyes that had always been there, etched into her very soul. She looked up when he entered, smiling before going back to her game on the floor. She didn't notice that he had shed his skin. He was wearing all black, and as usual compared to her, he looked like the beast. He lingered by the door as he always did, watching her every move.

Then he stepped forward, knocking the game on the floor aside, tiny letters scattering. At first she didn't react at all, staring into space. Then she frowned a little, blinking and looked back up at him from the floor. He seemed to loom over her – she could tell that something was about to happen, but didn't know what. He had also knocked over a glass of milk, the white content now spreading over the floor.

He pointed to the glass that was now rolling away from them with one precise finger.

"Pick it up." he ordered. She noticed then that his eyes were different, looking at her in a different way. He looked like he was high on drugs, which could have been the case. She dimly remembers the pills he kept close by in the bedroom, small plastic bottles with complicated names on the side. But it was not a look of malice, but of something dark and playful.

She does as he asks, leans over the floor, now messy, and picks up the glass, some of the milk still left at the bottom. He didn't specify where to put it down, so she just keeps holding it, looking at him for further instruction. So compliant, so obedient.

"Pour the rest of it down your shirt."

Slowly, she tilts the glass over. The milk is cool and tickling on her body, but she doesn't laugh or shiver. She's watching Jerome's hands, which are filthy. They looked scrubbed, but dirt lingering in the lines of his palms, dried blood underneath his fingernails. When she's finished pouring the milk over herself, he watches her for a long moment, the wet shirt revealing the outline of her slight breasts. Then, slowly, he gets down on his knees in front of her – his eyes chasing the sight of one dark nipple visible through the shirt. The air between them grows charged, and he has yet to touch her. He's too fascinated in just watching her getting wet.

So rather than him being the one to breach the distance, she does it for him, by grabbing a handful of his dark button-down shirt in her hand, pulling him close in one rough motion. She bites gently into his wiry shoulder, standing on her knees in order to reach. He tastes like cotton and heat and smells like iodine and rubbing alcohol. But Jerome has other plans.

He grabs her by the waist and nudges her back a step, touching his forehead against hers and snarls under his breath, his hands unyielding and almost bruising. He makes her lie down on her back, as he gives her open mouthed kisses against the hollow of her throat, on the sides of her neck, his mouth lingering each time until she moans. It almost sounds like someone crying, each gasps replaced by a new sob. When he starts mouthing her breasts through the pale pink fabric, tasting sour milk and linen and the soft skin underneath, her legs start kicking of their own accord.

But the predator in her wants more of him, and she urges him with her hands to take off his shirt and her nails scrape against his skin. His chest has many scars by now, but otherwise alabaster, so much like her own. He has more freckles, and it is a delight to bite into each one – he lets her do that for as long as he can stand it, until he shoves her back against the floor and looks into her eyes with a stern look, both of them breathing hard. She looks back at him, both furious and complete.

It is a marvel that neither of them accidentally kills the other during times like this.

Her dress has been riding up her body, and he can see her underwear clear as a day. And without waiting for any other tricks she might have up her sleeve, he lowers himself between her legs, lifting them up slightly by the thighs for better access. There's no hesitation when he meets the space between her legs with his mouth, kissing and licking what is there like there's no better drug.

If Harleys moans sounded like sobs before, they are now broken pieces of words and prayers –worries and joys and things that kill her. And when he notices her drifting away from him, he raises one of her legs over his shoulder and makes her stay with him as he drives her over the edge – she needs to be here when it happens.

When she finally comes, she doesn't burst into tears or weep in silence. Instead, her body starts shaking with quiet giggles that turn into regular laughter, her chapped mouth turning into a cheeky, proud grin.


	30. Chapter 30

_Author's note: Hey, I'm back again! Sorry for the absence of updates, but it was easter holiday and I was in a chocolate coma._

* * *

Quietly, the underbelly of Gotham shifted.

it was a slow process, one you wouldn't be able to notice unless you were part of it. Normal civilians had no clue that something a lot more terrifying than pick-pockets or criminal gangs prowled the streets at night.

His gang was still small, and he liked it that way. The followers were ardant to help in any way they could. Sometimes he'd oblige them, other times he'd put a gun in their mouth after he shook their hand and stand there laughing for hours over their corpses.

He liked the attention, but _Joker_ was no cult leader. He didn't want followers, he wanted henchmen who were afraid of him. He would bring weak, dangly ones with piercings and mascara to his wife as a gift, an act of goodwill. As a man of the house, it was his duty to bring home gifts after a hard day at work after all.

Harley treated them like chew toys. Tricking them into thinking that she was a kidnapped waif, act motherly and feed them tiny cups of tea laced with poison, or stuff from Pams garden that made you all paralyzed. As they tried to scream, she would wrap them up in tissue paper, and put a silk bow around their necks. Their wide, frightened eyes looked so much like her porcelain dolls, but warm and real.

Then the real fun would begin.

* * *

The home dynamic was proving to be more than a little difficult as of late. Though nothing had yet been said, muted glares passed between Pamela and Jerome more and more frequently. The tension in the room whenever they were together in it would rise, all barbed wires and hidden sharp things in the dark.

Though neither of them might have recognized it for what it was, it was about dominance. _Possession._

Both of them were fond of the third one in their home, the mania driven clown girl who skipped and hummed and drew stick figures on the walls like nothing was out of the ordinary. She had noticed nothing of this silent threat hanging in the air. The promise of something bad happening, and soon. She was sweet like that, really.

 _Still, would have been better if she could understand to stay the fuck away from the crazy plant lady._

It was another one of those nights when Jerome had to go to work "at the office". He would leave Harley at home most of the time, only bringing her when he needed to bring some real chaos. He was getting her used to the game again, since she had been on her own for so long, with her small band of misfits. They had been the first ones to go.

Now, he had full control of anybody who worked close to him. He didn't want her to associate with anything she picked up on the streets. Things that could touch her without his knowledge, befriend her without his permission.

But lately, he had been feeling less and less sure about leaving her alone with that other redhead that wasn't him. They had never really trusted each other much, the sting of poison like a thick cloud around her, in the air. Lucky him that his resurrection method had somehow made him immune to whatever she was trying to poison him with – he knew that she had tried, many times. But always failed. It was only a matter of time before she succeeded.

Or he would get home one night, and find them both gone. And that, _he could not have._

Before he left that night, he took his time to sit down with her in her room. She was busy listening to something in the walls. But he could get her to hear him, like always.

"Honey, daddy has to go to work now. Do you know where our other friend is tonight?"

In response, Harley giggled, curling her head towards her chest. Jerome rolled his eyes and thunked his head into the wall she was leaning against. _Why did women have to be so difficult?!_

"Harley. The walls are not that funny, believe me, take it from a professional." he told her, somewhat irritated. She sighed happily, stretching her limbs out on the floor next to the wall like a gymnast, one arm landing behind her on his shoulder, the hand curling around his neck. She tilted her head up and looked him in the eyes, bright blue meeting his pitch black ones.

"I can smell apple cider and chicken salad." she said, blinking. Her nails scratched at the back of his neck, and he found himself back in their shared world of nonsense, momentarily forgetting what he came in here to say.

He had to blink and look away, concentrate. His gaze focused on the unmade bed, mentally taking note that their next home should have a bigger one.

"That's right, that's what you had for lunch, before you decided to feed most of it to those stray cats."

Funny, how she didn't have to say anything, didn't have to look at her to know that she had turned sad all of a sudden. It was like a voice of its own in the silence, speaking louder than anything she could have said.

"They didn't want to be friends with me." she muttered in a small voice. He turned to look at her again, and when he spoke next, his voice was very stern, leaving no room for his usual playfulness. He put his hands around her shoulders, squeezing lightly to get her full attention.

"Speaking of friends, I want you to stay in here tonight. _Don't leave your room_ , you hear?"

After staring at him for a long moment, she nodded. Normally, he would have asked her to finish off the plant lady herself, as she was more than capable of doing so. But...plant lady had helped her. Been nice to her, when nobody else was. And Harley was loyal like that, and he thought that was kind of cute. Stupid and unnecessary yes, but cute all the same. He didn't want her to have to loose that as well to someone else. She had already lost too much.

And also, he knew, it was his fault that she had.

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes, but the pain was still there, he knew. She loved him, hands gripping into his leather jacket, not wanting him to go. Trapped by her he was, their foreheads pressed together as his hands roamed her neck, light pressure that spoke volumes of how much he wanted to stay but couldn't. Not tonight.

There were things his blood was screaming for. Things that needed to be accomplished. He smirked, but it faltered as he looked down at her lips.

"I told you, I have to work." he mumbled, and he could feel her hands digging into the leather, pulling him closer. Not enough time.

"You can take me with you again. I can live in your briefcase like a puppy dog."

"You're better than puppies, sweetheart."

"I know."

That mature voice came out of her as she said it, slowly but surely she let her hands drift away from him, back to the wall behind her.


	31. Chapter 31

_Author's note: Hello again! It's that time of the month, which means time for another chapter! Oh and if you're interested in listening to the (un)official soundtrack for this fic, you can go on youtube and search for : teenagers fic playlist_

 _As always, read and review!_

* * *

 _Radio talk show host: ...And as the recently deceased mayor of our city fades away from our memory, the question of whom shall replace him has begun to chew through everyone's minds. Can we, for once, have a city without corruption? The candidates have been lining up, and one of the most prominent among them is Oswald Cobblepot. His election campaign is headed by his close friend, Edward Nygma – who has been handling the press with, I must say, an enviable sense of confidence. What lies behind this well-mannered facade, and will they broach the subject of Cobblepot's brief stint in the mental hospital at the live interview tonight? Well folks, you know where I'll be tonight! But before I go, let's play another jaunty tune to keep us in good spirits, and more importantly, out of trouble…_

* * *

The meeting in the alley was coming to a close. It was interesting to meet another person who'd been under Dr. Arkhams personal care. Fish Mooney looked the same as she ever had, except for her eyes, which were now a milky blue color. Officially, she was dead, but he knew what that was like. And what it meant – nothing.

She played things close to the chest, for now. But the Joker had persuaded her to let him help out – for a price. Kill a dozen of her old enemies, in exchange for two safe houses outside of the GCPD jurisdiction. Close enough to the city, but unless you knew exactly where it was, you'd never find it.

He brought her the evidence of a work well done – and since she had made the request herself, he brought her five severed heads. She looked at each of them critically, as if examining an avant garde art piece. Finally, she nodded briefly, and her henchmen stepped forward to take them away to be burned.

The joker stepped forward, giving her a deep, theatrical bow and a little wave of his hand. He was wearing a dark leather jacket with a purple dress shirt underneath, messily buttoned and worn at the edges. Black jeans that sported several moth-eaten holes and dragged in the mud. When his eyes met Mooneys milky ones, he caught her flinching. This pleased him. Grinning, he retreated along with his small band of collegues into the shadows, taking that twinge of fear in her eyes with him as he went.

"An honor doing business with you Madame." he called over his shoulder.

"I'd say the same, though not entirely sure wheter I should call you a gentleman or a trickster." she said. He stopped then and looked at her from over his shoulder, his eyes unreadable.

"I am both, and I am neither. Come on boys, I think we're finished here. And ah-"

Jerome snatched a flower from one of Mooney's many henchmen that had been tucked into his breastpocket. It was a rose. Personally he preferred daisies – so innocent- but his ol' ball and chain preferred the thorns.

"I'll see you around, Joker."

"Oh no honey, no. I'll see you first. "

* * *

She tried to be good and do as she was told. She used to be very good at that, good at everything her mother wanted her to. Despite what she said about hating her, and the things she used to make her do.

 _"You have the chance that I never got – you really have the chance of being the best of them!"_

All the lessons she used to go to, the training after and before that. The blue cotton dresses that came in the mail and felt like rough sandpaper on her skin. Her hair plucked, frizzed and teased. But it wasn't enough, because she was a fat girl instead of a skinny girl, and fat girls didn't become prima ballerinas. You had to be smooth and skinny in order to survive. That was what mother had said, always said when she begged for food, and had none.

 _"In order to fly, you must be able to sacrifice everything."_

And when she was not good, there was punishment. Except it was all the time, and not just once in awhile. It was part of her daily routine, part of their family like a third, benevolent person with heavy limbs and stinging skin. Cuts and bruises that always hurt, no matter how many times she thought she had gotten used to them. Knew that she was so much smaller, and she was so much bigger, and she was mother. The holy Mary looking out for her, down on her.

So Harley sacrificed, she bent her back and heard her spine snap in two. Yet she did it out of love, that everlasting, enduring love. At the end of it, she knew that mother would finally love her like a mother should, and this was her journey to repent, because surely, she must have done something awful. She was devout and careful, so, so careful. No wrong steps, no failed gestures with her hands. Every movement perfected, cherised by ballet instructors who'd watched her dance. Said there was a beautiful agony in her movement. Her muscles were toned and steady, her frame skinny in just the right way.

And when mother heard their praises, she was silent.

Why Mother, are you silent?

Her first reaction, and only reaction was panic. Because when god is silent, the dead will walk the earth, and the third person will come. No, no do not let him come, not again…

Her pleading voice, getting dragged across the floor towards the pain that would always come.

 _"Look at what I have to do to make you happy."_

* * *

She woke up from the dream with a startled gasp.

It took awhile to get her bearings, blinking in the darkness of her bedroom. It took longer still to shrug off the memories, the sensation of getting used to the punishments again. Her body already accepting what was about to happen.

No.

He wouldn't let that happen again. Nothing like that could happen here in their world. She was safe and they were happy. She kept repeating this to herself, tucking her knees up her chest and staring at the floor. But the words seemed futile and empty, and finally she couldn't stand being still so she got up and left the confinements of her room, needing more space to breathe and leave the labyrinth of clouded memories.

She walked into the kitchen and once there, felt thirsty. It was completely dark outside, meaning that it must have been late in the night. He wasn't home yet, but that was normal. She knew that she would see him when the sun came up, whenever that was. He returned to her with the dawn, and she often woke up past noon to find him heavy in bed next to her, a zombie who rested during the day so he could eat people by nightfall.

Her footsteps echoed in the large room, opening the fridge in the dark to dig out a milk carton. She drank straight from the nozzle, droplets falling down her chin.

Normally, Harley was pretty observant when she entered a different room or place. Not that she took much notice of objects per say, unless they were toys or stuffed animals. But she always noticed the people, if there were any. This night, she thought she was alone. But she wasn't.

Pamela was hidden by the deep shadows that the faded light from the fridge couldn't reach. The ivy that grew around her limbs looked less friendly at night, moving sluggishly and with slight twitches across the floor and up her body. When one of the vines knocked over the tv remote off the coffee table, Harley finally noticed that sombody else was present, and she whipped her head towards the living room area, translucent blue eyes blinking into the darkness.

"Pam?" she calls out softly. The pause before she answers back is too long.

"Yes?"

Harley shifts from one foot to the other, considering the dirty floor.

"What do you do when you have bad dreams?" she asks, rubbing some milk from the corner of her lips. Somewhere in the darkness, Pam sighs. Rubs at her temple with one hand and stares at the dark screen of the television.

"I don't have them. I told you – I don't ever have dreams. Not with my condition." she says, her voice dark, thoughtful. Harley shrugs one shoulder, her nightshirt slipping, revealing more skin.

"I forgot that – wish I could forget other things too..."

"Harley."

"Yes?"

Suddenly, Pam is standing right in front of her. She must not have been paying attention. Gently, she places her hands on Harleys shoulder – her touch is light as a feather. There is no warmth from her hands.

"….I have to ask you something. Something very important." she says, making sure that their eyes meet. Harley is curious, but wheter she means it or not is always uncertain.

"What is it?" she whispers. Pam bites her lip, searching for the right words.

"I don't think it would be very good for you to stay with him. He's controlling you, isn't he? "she asks.

Harley looks at her and frowns.

"He takes care of me."

But Pamela disagrees. She rolls her eyes and gets angry, her hair bristling.

"And you think he's doing a good job? Is that why he left you here alone, with me? "

It is a strange question that she doesn't know how to answer. What is so dangerous about Pam? Pam is her friend, isn't she? Jerome knows that she would never hurt her. And Pam can tell that she really doesn't get it. She lets the girl go to pace along the room, but never straying far away from her. Finally she comes to a halt, and stares at her. The vines that follow at her heels have started hissing now, a low omnious sound that reminds Harley of poisonous snakes in the grass.

"Do you know that you've been followed several times, and the only reason you are even alive right now is because of me?"

Harley blinks, confused.

"What?"

"There are plenty of gangs looking to start trouble with Jerome, surely you must know that. And by starting trouble, I mean killing off the only thing he has shown any attachment to, you. "

 _She's trying to make me hate him. Why?_

Slowly, Harley steps back from her, recoiling.

"He wouldn't let anyone touch me."

Pamela just continues to stare at her, gaze unreadable and cold.

"Except at Arkham you mean?"

It's the first real thing she's said that makes her feel hurt, makes her think about those days long gone now. Harley shakes her head almost viciously, looks down at the floor with big, wet eyes.

"I don't like you talking this way, I don't want you to open your mouth anymore."

Taking pity on her, Pam takes one step towards her, her hand streched out to touch her cheek.

"I'm saying these things because I have to. You are not safe with him – I want to ask you to leave, right now, and come with me. I can protect you – offer the thing he cannot give." she says, her voice soft, and Harley turns her head away from her, hair shielding her face.

"Why are you asking me this? Why now?" she whispers. Pamelas voice becomes softer, a lull that would be so easy to give in to.

"Your affections are wasted on a man like him. And any good feelings coming from you should be treasured, kept safe. Please Harley, let me that person for you."

While her mind rebels against her words, the temptation of her beckons. A stability at her core which was what Harley first was drawn to when she met her. Pam is sharp and wise, and so very angry at all mankind – everyone except her. But the anger is sweet too, like a drink or a balm for her soul that feasts on chaos. All the times she has comforted Harley when she was upset, her hugs that smell like bark and sunshine and strange flowers. There's no denying her beauty either – or their sinewy connection in all lethal things that stretch between them like a thick ribbon of understanding, that ebbs and flows like childhood love. Yes, part of her being has been given gladly to Ivy, and part of her shall always be loyal to the green lady and her poisonous skin.

Pamela doesn't know it, but Harley is rather fond of stealing knives from the kitchen. It's only lucky that she has one hidden away now, in the sweaty palm behind her back.

But the thing is, she is right.

In all probabilty, somewhere along the line, she will die and it will be because of him, somehow. She knows that – people think she's stupid because she keeps seeing her dead mother and talks to secret people in the walls but Harley is also someone who believes in truths, treasures them more than anything. But there is a strong possibility that she gets to choose how she dies – if that means that she could die while laughing, holding his hand, then that's actually just fine. That is peace.

But someone like Poison Ivy will never understand how that works. Maybe because she is not as mad, or because of her immense hatred.

Maybe she has never prayed like Harley has, to a god that became a heretic, and then the devil.

As she looks into those shaded green eyes, she realizes what will happen if she says no. And knows what she must do.


	32. Chapter 32

_Author's note: Hey there! Sorry for not updating in awhile, just have been really low on inspiration and whatnot._

* * *

The knife had been surprisingly sharp, which meant that when Harley drove it through Ivy's chest, it went in deeper than she expected it would. Just split into her being as if the whole idea of her was nothing more than a wet mass, pulling apart.

Their faces were still close, so she could see the expression on Ivy's face.

At first nothing changed, the pain did not alter her at all – but then the weakness, as well as shock set in – her blood oozing out of her slowly but surely. She exhaled, and it sounded like she had been punched in the stomach, her eyes slowly widening. Without really thinking Harley mirrored the sound back, as if it was her who had just been fatally wounded. They stayed like that for what felt like forever – her hand so tightly holding onto the knife, not letting go.

Ivy had her hands over her own, not even trying to pull it out. She was still standing, though her legs had started to tremble. Then, Ivy smiled in wry amusement. It seemed like she wanted to laugh, but that it would be too painful. Her eyes became slits, watching Harley with a look of defeat.

"You need to do the things you do, I guess." she said, her voice somewhat slurred.

And as Pam's body fell to the kitchen floor, another piece of her innocence fell away.

* * *

Not that it was just that easy to really kill Poison Ivy. Not even close.

Her body would be still, but inside she would regenerate, create a new, living heart. It was just going to take a lot of time. Pam had told her everything back when it was just the two of them – lying side by side in bed and Harley was trying not to have another nightmare about the asylum.

" _The truth is that I can't die."_ she'd whispered, the sheet covering them, quieting her words.

" _Why not?"_ Harley had whispered back, eyes wide like that of a child. Pam had frowned, that fearsome hatred of hers marking her face, hardening it.

" _Because of what that asshole of an ex-husband did to me. It's in my genetic makeup – I'm basically a plant. I can regrow anything I lose – and while I will age, it won't show. "_

" _How can you not die?"_

" _They put me six feet under, the earth welcomes me like a seed. I grow back, push up against the surface like a new flower."_

* * *

She didn't ask Joker exactly where his henchmen were taking her body – but she did make him swear not to burn it. While he did hate the woman and was truthfully quite thrilled that his wife had gotten rid of her (even temporarily) he recognized talent when he saw it. And Poison Ivy had oodles of that – even if she was a homewrecker.

No matter. The day would come when he could make her see reason. Give her a place to use all those wonderful talents of hers that poisoned and infected. Yes, he could see that.

And though she did not know it yet, Ivys death was not marked only by a bloody kitchen floor and a knife that could no longer be used. He had finally found a new home from them that would be secure enough from prying eyes.

And he couldn't wait to show it to her.


	33. Chapter 33

_author's note_ : I just want to say thank you for reading and reviewing this story, I really appreciate it. But I decided some time ago that Harley and Jerome/Jokers journey need more than just one story - and that _Teenagers_ is just really about the early years. I feel like the characters have come to a place now where they can no longer fall under that category, and thus it is time to move on.

* * *

Story to be continued in the next arch...

 ** _Monarchs_**


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